


Secrets and Distortions

by Tricksterbelle



Series: Magic in the Shadows [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, And greatly revised, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Gen, Holmes gets a new friend, Murder Mystery, Original Female Character & Sherlock Holmes Friendship, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, imported from Fanfic Dot Net, rivals to friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2019-10-25 00:09:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 37,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17714300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tricksterbelle/pseuds/Tricksterbelle
Summary: As much as Sherlock Holmes did not believe in magic, the Fae Folk were very much real and thriving in England. And as much as Holmes wanted to solve this case in the countryside by himself, one of the most dangerous Fae operatives wanted to solve it first.





	1. The Catching of a Thief

At those moments before dawn when no respectable Londoner would be roaming, the most activity came from two people on a dingy street off Hyde Park. A thin, bitter-looking woman set up a display of flowers outside her small shop. Not far away, a meaty man in a worn greatcoat drunkenly sat on a bench and tried to read yesterday’s paper under the light of the streetlamp. 

Had any casual observer seen the two, they would seem completely unrelated. A more observant eye, however, would notice a subtle exchange. They would occasionally catch each other’s eye, their gazes intense and fraught with tension. The flower lady’s back would stiffen suddenly as if affronted. The old man’s brow would wrinkle under his paper from an unheard scolding. The silent conversation continued unabated as dawn broke. 

The first true ray of sunlight cut through the fog and illuminated the street. The uneven cobblestones and the sewer grate gleamed with the previous night’s dew. Presently, a peculiarly wet, grating sound issued from the grate. Black, oily bubbles seethed from the bars and formed a slick puddle near the sidewalk. The puddle began to rise and morph until it took the shape of a man. The man shook off any remaining slime from his gangly form and produced a wooden box from his satchel. 

Before he could sneak into the shadows with it, the old man stepped out in front of him, all drunkenness disappearing.

“Brackisham Smythe,” he said in a strong, commanding voice. The sewer man looked up with a jerk. “The Fae Liaison Office has a warrant for your arrest for burglary, unlawful enchantment of goods, and abuse of shape shifting.”

Smythe yelped and ran towards the alley beside the flower shop. The old lady stood in the center, blocking his way. Her wrinkled hands timidly fidgeted with her apron as the criminal grinned at her.

“Just step aside, marm,” he said, his Cockney thick. “I’ve no reason to be harming you yet.”

The woman’s head lowered. “But I have every reason to harm you,” she said, but her voice was much deeper, smoother than he expected to hear from the mouth of the wiry crone. From her apron she pulled a knife.

The man visibly trembled in terror. He turned to run but the old man blocked him, with the terrible woman advancing from behind. Smythe cursed and drew his own blade from his pocket. It glowed with electric green light. 

He made a lunge at the old man, but the woman was quicker. She tripped him and grabbed him by the collar as he fell. She put her own knife to his throat. The early morning sun betrayed the faintest violet sheen in the blade. The thief regarded it with mortal fear, whimpering and dropping both his box and knife to the ground. The man removed his right glove and touched two fat fingers to Smythe’s forehead.

“By the authority of the Offices appointed in Liaison between the British Empire and the Sovereign government of Faerie, you are under arrest. Be still.” The air around them shuddered, and Smythe slumped to the ground. Both his attackers visibly relaxed. 

The old man removed his hat, and instantly his face transformed from red-faced and wrinkled to that of a much younger man with dark brown hair, square jaw, and an easy smile. He waved his hand at the unconscious thief. “You, up.” Smythe rose like a sleepwalker and stood beside him. “I’ll handle this idiot,” he told the woman. The young man knelt and picked up both the wooden box and the greenish knife. The knife he carefully pocketed; the box he handed to his compatriot. “You can take care of this. You’ve earned it today.” 

The woman smiled as she accepted her prize walked down the alleyway. The man waved his hand again and walked into the flower shop, the sleepwalking thief trailing behind. No trace of the strange altercation remained. A fresh fog rolled in, London began to wake in earnest, and the secrets of the Fae were kept once again.


	2. The Pride of the Fae

As the mid-morning fog lifted in Grosvenor Square, a Fae woman walked down the lane from the direction of Hyde Park, carrying a rough wooden box. However, she looked completely different from the little old flower seller who left her shop with it. Her glamour had faded away, and now the lady was truly herself. 

She who was once a gnarled old crone now had the erect spine of an aristocrat, the striding legs of a dancer, and the firm tone of an athlete. What was once wispy gray frizzle was now a thick black cascade drawn up and anchored by a single silver pin. She was a head taller and strode in fortified self-confidence. Her skin was youthfully smooth, no longer spotted or papery, if a few shades darker than fashionable. She looked in her early twenties, similarly to the smiling young man whom she had worked with earlier. The woman had a firm jaw and pointed chin that seemed equal parts high-born and feral. Her eyes were an exotic violet and harbored steely bite, with more than a little arrogance in her arched brow. Her mouth was sinuous and full, with a twist at the corner that had a habit of becoming a lopsided smile.

Even the woman’s dress was not the threadbare calico of the flower seller, but a dark grey number of practical cut and clean fit. It fluttered and swished as she strode into the drawing room of a very respectable-looking house. Half a dozen men wearing expensive suits and worried expressions lounged anxiously around the room but stiffly rose and bowed out of respect as the woman entered. She rolled her eyes and placed the box on a mahogany table.

“Gentlemen,” she started firmly, “The person responsible for taking some of your most priceless heirlooms was apprehended this morning. While Scotland Yard wasn’t quite a match for him, the Fae Liaison Office most certainly is. And very luckily for you, most of the stolen goods were found on his person.” 

She opened the box towards the men and removed several trays of opulent jewelry that wouldn’t normally have fit box of that size. An enchanted box would be sensible for a career thief, so long as he hadn’t gotten caught.

“Gentlemen, do you recognize the items set before you?” All the men approached the table with expressions astonished relief. They pointed at various items and murmured before answering in the affirmative. When one of the gentlemen reached for an emerald bracelet, the woman quickly diverted his hand.

“Thank you for claiming them. I will be passing around a paper for you to describe your belongings in detail. At this time, we shall need to temporarily take these to the Liaison Office, as all these items have likely had powerful enchantments placed on them and will need restoration. We will be delivering them personally to you once we’ve finished.”

As she expected, the statement caused a bit of a stir. Most looked surprised. A few looked dejected, and some were enraged. “My wife and I waited over three weeks for our most precious belongings!” Bellowed a particularly portly gentleman. “Family heirlooms! And you expect me to just wait until your Office decides to hand them back, after such a slow search? I have never seen such shoddy work. You wouldn’t see this in a proper, English organization!” The woman exhaled very slowly from her nose, steadying herself as the man picked up his paper and waved it in her face. “I read about this man, an English human man, named Sherlock Holmes. He solved a robbery and produced both goods and thief in three days. Now tell me why I trusted you!”

The woman did not answer immediately, but spoke low and dangerous when she did, “I care little about whatever smut you read with your morning coffee, but how long do you think it would take this human you so ardently praise to wade through the sewers to find which ball of slime was hoarding your wife’s necklace. And how is he at removing curses? Would you be so gracious to him if that necklace choked your wife to death at dinner?” 

The man became very red-faced and sat down.

“Are you threatening him, witch?” said the oldest gentleman of the group, who had remained seated, but looked up at her through pale, hooded eyes. “You’re a liar and a theif, witch. Just like all Fae, you want our valuables for yourself. I see your game. You’re tricking us into giving you our things so you can keep them, then you’ll harm an honest man for claiming what’s his by right.”

The woman’s eyes flashed savagely. “You have no right to speak of thievery sir. When you can speak of cities your people built on land stolen from Fae now living in gutters, then we will speak of thievery. We will speak of rightful claims when you can account for the objects that sit in your museums, your hoards, at the cost of innocent Fae lives.”

Before the woman could continue her impassioned speech, another gentleman walked into the room. He was precise and hale with graying temples and a healthy mustache. Everyone immediately quieted and looked towards him. The men settled down and some muttered apologies. The woman stood at military attention and at intently watched the man. He was Thaddeus Grimm, Director of the Fae Liaison Office, and his name carried considerable weight even among humans.

“Pardon our walking advocate for Fae rights, gentlemen. I apologize for my tardiness,” he said lightly. “This is Officer Celeste Lefay, who was sent here under my confidence. She has personally carried out much of this investigation, the results of which you see before you. Any insult against her is an insult against me.” This was said with additional weight, and the older man nervously cleared his throat. Thaddeus turned to Celeste, “Officer Lefay, your job is complete. Thank you.”

Celeste nodded curtly, “Yes Sir.” She started to leave but stopped to tap the ledger papers with a manicured nail. “Do make sure each of you has written down a full description of your items. We would hate for your valuables to be sent to the wrong family. Good day gentlemen.”

Celeste quickly exited the room and house. Thaddeus’ coach waited at the curb, a few lower-ranking Liaison Officers milling around it in their grey and teal uniforms. They stood at attention as Celeste approached.

“Wait inside at the door,” she commanded. “Thatch will signal you.”

The men filed into the house behind Celeste. She stretched her weary limbs before sitting inside the coach in an unladylike slump. A short time later, the officers exited, escorting one of the well-dressed men in irons. Celeste recognized him as the one who reached for the emerald bracelet. Another Officer left, holding the wooden box carefully. Thatch came out last, straightening his collar as he got into the cab.

“I was right. Wasn’t I, Thatch?” Celeste asked matter-of-factly.

“Yes Celeste. It was Sir Worthing who hired Brackisham Smythe to steal the items. I expect it is he who is responsible for the increased Enchantment fraud outside the Fae District. A good idea with the bracelet, I might add. He had hoped to salvage at least one piece hitherto unaccounted for.” He handed her the emerald bracelet.

“Thank you, sir,” she said. Celeste smiled cruelly to herself as she pocketed her own jewelry. “One more cheating human down.” 

Thaddeus looked at her. “On that vein, Celeste, it was not part of your assignment to berate the victims of the crime.”


	3. The Office in Springtime

Thaddeus was still lecturing Celeste as the cab passed Parliament and pulled up to the Liaison Office’s headquarters.

“Remind me again of the Fae Liaison Office’s purpose, Celeste,” he asked.

“To bring to justice those who would harm goodwill between Faerie and Humanity and to foster better relations in future,” she recited.

“That is our entire purpose. Don’t lose that, Celeste,” said Thaddeus, his tone fatherly yet firm. Celeste looked at the pavement. “You are much too good for it.”

They scaled the steps of an expansive Gothic building with gargoyles and architecture to rival nearby Westminster. Two guardian statues of Fae Leopards, gleaming in polished black and violet, flanked them upon their ascent. Officers of many ages and sexes bustled in and out the four open doorways, but they all stopped to show some sign of respect as Thaddeus Grimm passed by them. He waved them off with exasperated informality as they continued inside the office. 

The interior was a labyrinthine network of arched hallways, skylit atriums, and tucked away offices. While the bricks and masonry gleamed mahogany, the floor was a swirl of verdant green marble. Even in the heart of London, the Fae had rebuilt their deep dark woods, though modern industry had done it’s share to help. Telegraph wires stretched across the golden ceiling, sharing the air with dozens of paper airplanes that seemed to fly with purposeful direction. The clicking of typewriters echoed through the building as scores of short women with tightly wound hair input reports, illuminated by wall sconces that burned suspiciously bright for the gasworks they resembled. A bevy of those women descended upon Thatch like zealous insects, burying the man in files and round discs of colored glass. Celeste laughed as she took the stack from him and deposited it on some poor clerk’s desk.

Thatch looked at her disapprovingly. “You’ll return to it,” she replied cheekily.

“I did partner you with my son to keep you both out of trouble. Where in blazes did he go?”

“After we apprehended Smythe, Tobias volunteered to interrogate him.”

“Good. We will need Smythe’s testimony to convict Worthing in human courts.”

“Welcome back you two!” At that moment, the smiling young man who had last entered a flower shop with the thief came bounding up a stairway, triumphantly waving a colored glass prism.

“Speak of the devil,” Celeste said as he strutted up to them. Tobias Grimm grinned broadly while handing Thatch the prism, and the trio walked to a nearby recess in the wall where an elaborate beast of a machine sat. It would be forgivable to call it a kinetoscope, had it not been for the size, extra leavers, multiple lights glowing around the sides, and the fact the kinetoscope would not be known to humans for another three years. Director Grimm inserted the prism into the coordinating slot and peered into the visor. After giving the hand crank a few turns, he straightened and clapped Tobias on the back.

“My boy, you could pull secrets from the dead. You’ve both done exceptional work on this case. I am quite proud of you both, as a father would be to his own children.”

“I am your own child,” noted Tobias, “and Celeste might as well be.”

“Perhaps I should adopt Celeste and make it official,” Thatch said dryly as he retrieved the prism from the machine and handed it to his son. “Toby, get this to our legal Officers for processing. Celeste, I need to see you in my office after my next meeting. That gives you a head start on your paperwork. Don’t waste the opportunity.”

Celeste rolled her eyes, and the three split ways. Tobias disappeared up another staircase and Thatch went back for his stack of files. Celeste crossed the flurried atrium to her third-floor office. As she ascended the stairs, a younger boy heavily burdened with papers nearly collided with her as he raced past.

“Hey Oryan!” She called to him. He turned around, his face haggard and a little wild. “If you drop those acquisition orders Arcturus piled on you to do my paperwork for me, I can get you box seats at the Oberon when you leave the early shift tomorrow.”

Oryan looked dumbfounded at Celeste’s twisted grin. “How on Earth did you know…”

“Your mind, Oryan,” Celeste said. “the first and best weapon of every Officer. What did I observe of you?”

“Well,” the boy started hesitantly, “the acquisition orders have green edges, and I was humming The Magic Flute, which opens at the Oberon tonight. But, Arcturus? And how did you know I was leaving early tomorrow?”

“Arcturus and his office have the perpetual scent of burnt paper and mothballs,” Celeste explained. “The papers in your arms carried that distinctive fragrance as you nearly shoved me down the stairway. There are also small holes singed in your sleeve with silver edges. This is a common reaction of wax polish and Atmospheric Ink on fabric. Looks like a fresh mess down some corridor that you and the other apprentice officers spent a long afternoon cleaning, likely bartered for an early weekend tomorrow. Would I be accurate?”

“You’re a marvel, Celeste,” said Oryan as he tucked the papers in a corner. He bowed in mock reverence, “I am at your service.”

“Wonderful. You know my office,” She shooed him up the stairs.

“Celeste,” the boy called after her, “won’t I need…”

“A Memory Glass?” Celeste drew a prism of colored glass from her pocket and held it firmly in her palm. She exhaled slowly over it, the color warming from turquoise to a glowing magenta. She threw the prism up the stairs to Oryan. He laughed as he caught it and ran to her office. Celeste relaxed, quite pleased with herself, as she made her way across the atrium to more stimulating activity. Maybe the gymnasium had a court free for knife training. Then she felt a familiar pair of eyes burning the back of her head. She turned to see Thaddeus Grimm gazing solemnly at her from the doorway of his office. Apparently, that meeting hadn’t taken as long as expected. He motioned for her to come inside. Celeste bounded up the stairway again with several excuses and explanations bubbling to the forefront.

Because that expression meant she was in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little bit more world-building, my friends, then the clash begins. How are we enjoying Thatch, Toby, and Celeste? Do let me know how everything's going.


	4. The Case Assigned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Officer Lefay is given a new case, and a warning concerning the challenge awaiting her.

Celeste walked into Director Grimm’s office head high, explanation at the ready. “Thatch, there is nothing wrong with letting a competent apprentice officer like Oryan document from a Memory Glass. You yourself-”

“Let me speak, Celeste,” Thatch said, stopping her with one upraised finger. “I didn’t ask you here to chastise you about paperwork. Believe me; I’ve seen it, and I would much rather you find someone more… patient for that task.”

“Something else must be bothering you,” said Celeste. He motioned for her to take a seat in the chair opposite Thatch’s desk as he sat in a leather wingback behind it.

“Both you and Tobias do extraordinary work on your assignments. The two of you are quickly becoming one of the most successful teams in the Liaison Office, not to mention one of my favorites.” Celeste grinned impishly. “That said, I am suspending the two of you from street cases for the time being.”

Celeste’s smile disappeared instantly, and she bolted from her seat. “Thatch! How? How dare – Why? You must admit it has been a while since we’ve had a demerit. Bugger, shite, and HELL, Thatch!”

Thaddeus gave her one look, and her stream of profanities ceased with a click of her jaw. “If you’d let me finish, I was going to say that it would be much easier to assign Tobias and yourself cases of much higher importance if you weren’t gallivanting off at the docks and alleyways. And furthermore, you are both too important to the Office, to me, to lose to a street ruffian with a lucky shot. Like what almost transpired this morning.”

“I caught him before he could use that knife. Nothing happened,” said Celeste, petulantly.

“But we have no guarantee of the next time. Unless you both learn to take less unnecessary risks and exercise better caution. While your methods yield favorable results, they could benefit from a certain refinement.”

Celeste sighed and crossed her arms. “So what are we supposed to do in the mean time, Thatch? You know how few and far between those special cases come up. Am I to sit at my desk and address stationary for the next month?”

“You have both been both been selected for temporary assignments outside London. Tobias has been placed in a training rotation in Oxford. You’ll be taking some assignments in the country.”

“Country assignments are for Officers past their prime while they wait for retirement,” Celeste muttered. “What did I do to deserve this?”

“No matter what you think, Celeste, this isn’t punishment.” Thaddeus touched her hand paternally. “If anything, you both need time for rest and contemplation. I hope teaching the new batch of Apprentice Officers will simmer down Toby’s persistent recklessness. And then there’s you. My dear goddaughter, I’m worried about you. With most every case, you have shown an increasing sense of distrust, even cruelty. To others,” and Thatch said that with an expression implying those others were those far less familiar with her than he, “it would seem the job is weighing down on you. You are devastatingly effective, but such ruthlessness comes at a cost. You have talent, Celeste. Enough to potentially be one of the best Officers on record, but that talent can be further refined with a little tact and subtlety, and this case in Brambleston will be an excellent place to practice those traits.”

Celeste’s eyes narrowed. “I already have a case?”

“The lady who requested an investigation asked for you directly. She said you would remember her from school.” Thatch handed Celeste a file. “Lady Lila Weatherby, or Montclair as you would have known her.”

“Lila married a human,” Celeste said with a slight disdain as she skimmed over the file.

“Do keep your prejudices in check during your stay. Lady Weatherby’s sister recently died under suspicious circumstances. That will be the purpose of your investigation.”

“It says she died of heart failure. Have natural causes been completely ruled out?”

“Lilith Montclair was in the prime of life one day, then seemingly dead of fright the next. The cause appears much more preternatural, and Lady Weatherby has reason to believe she is being threatened as well.”

Celeste’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think there is some maliciousness afoot? Possibly Dark Magic?”

“That is what you are being sent to ascertain, but we have been instructed to use utmost discretion. Lord Weatherby is under the assumption you are a visiting school friend. That will be a simple enough cover for you to both ensure Lady Weatherby safety and conduct your investigation.”

“So, I am to be a detective and a bodyguard,” Celeste said, leaning back in her chair. “Well, her ladyship won’t mind if I do my investigating at night.”

“There’s one more thing you should know,” said Thatch when Celeste rose to leave. “Lord Weatherby also suspects something amiss with his sister-in-law’s passing. He has employed the services of a human detective, one not affiliated with the police.” Celeste looked suspiciously at her employer. Thatch lowered his voice, “Have you heard of a Sherlock Holmes?”

Celeste stiffened. The image of a red-faced aristocrat flickered in her mind. “He’s only human,” she said aloofly. “Fae matters aren’t an area of his expertise. I’ll solve this case before he even starts looking in the right direction. Then he’ll learn humans should try not poking their long noses into our business.”

“Officer Lefay, under no circumstances are you to underestimate this man. I have seen his work, and I know his capabilities. The two times I’ve had him watched as precaution, he not only was able to slip away from two veteran Officers, he sent me a polite note explaining how it wasn’t necessary.” Celeste looked surprised. “Be careful. He has quite a proficient mind for a man who doubts the existence of magic, Fae or otherwise.” 

Celeste snarled, making a very believable impression of an agitated leopard. “You are not going to hurt him Celeste. Unless that man attacks you directly, you are forbidden to him cause him any injury.” She pouted. Thatch stood and opened the door for her. “Your train leaves tomorrow morning. Go pack and get prepared.”

“See you in a week, Director Grimm,” Celeste said on the other side of the doorway.

“One more thing” Thatch said before she was out of earshot. “He doesn’t trust women, ever.”

Celeste gave Thatch a crooked smile, “I better give him a good reason for his distrust, then. That man will know how to deal with Fae after I’m through with him.”

Thatch smiled as he walked back to his desk. Only when he sat down did he say quietly, “My dear little tempest, that is precisely why I am sending you.”


	5. The Challenge Issued

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celeste Lefay reaches her destination and gets her first sight of her mysterious rival.

The ride to Brambleston was interminably dull, and Celeste emerged from the train bristling with pent up energy. Stepping onto the platform, she gazed over the little hamlet like a hawk surveying an open field. Though not remotely crowded, the village seemed bustling and vivacious. In the afternoon sun, the half-timbered and brick houses that lined the street breathed with the collective life of their inhabitants. Ancient trees and wildflowers grew together alongside the pathways. Mothers bustled between shops with bags and parcels in hand, talking pleasantly to each other. Children, recently liberated from school, ran wildly down the street, shrieking with laughter. Old men sat on stumps outside the public house, smoking and muttering.

Celeste laughed inwardly, “Thatch didn’t send me on a case; he sent me on holiday.”

A green and black carriage pulled up to the station, and Celeste recognized the stylized W emblazoned on its side. She walked to the luggage cart and deftly hefted her two large bags from the pile and made her way to the carriage. A well-meaning porter who was just about to carry her bags for her was left behind, open-mouthed in shock and gesticulating with his empty arms. The carriage driver was an older man of short stature and greying reddish hair. His face was warm and open, if a tad wrinkled from a life of hard work. He tipped his cap to her as she approached. 

“Afternoon Miss Lefay. Hope your journey was pleasant enough. ‘Tis a fine day to arrive, I must say. Village looks at her best.”

“I would have to agree,” said Celeste. “London is rarely this picturesque. It’s usually all grey buildings and yellow fog.” The driver winked at her, one of his emerald eyes sparkling a little more brightly than considered natural. Celeste’s smile broadened, and she relinquished her bags to the man. “If I may inquire, What manner of Fae are you?” She asked as they both settled at the front of the carriage. 

“I’m a mixed breed myself,” he said. “I’m half Southern Leprechaun, one fourth proper Fae, and one fourth human. Not exactly a fetching pedigree in either Realm, but it gets me a free pint at three different pubs.”

Celeste laughed, “I suppose that’s tithe enough.” They passed a group of young boys, a few of which she noticed sported the pointed ears of Fae Folk. “How is the general Fae population in Brambleston?”

“Bout the same as the human population, I expect. We got enough for a nice little Jinxery. The Wylsea family owns it.” They passed a quaint cottage with a sign saying Jinxery and Magical Supply dangling from a post in front of it. Next to the cottage was a rambling garden bursting with flowers. In a ring of chairs sat women of differing ages wearing colorful dresses. 

“That’s our local Midwife Circle there. They take care of minor problems. Brownies, boggarts, and the like.” The driver’s voice lowered. “But lately, there’s been some dark stuff happening round here. Village hasn’t seen such in their lifetimes” 

Celeste leaned in conspiratorially. “Like what?”

“It’s been happening since around the time poor Miss Lilith passed. There’s been strange sounds heard at night in the fields and the woods. Like someone screaming in pain, but all unnatural and sickly-sounding. Everyone’s afraid to go outside town at night.” The driver looked Celeste dead in the eye. “Her ladyship hasn’t ever mentioned you until all this started happening. Miss Lefay, I know why you’re here. You be careful.”

Celeste grinned, “I shall attempt it.”

By then, the carriage was passing through the gates of the Weatherby estate. To the left was the stable and carriage house, to the right were the beginnings of a huge garden, and the sprawling ancient manor house loomed in the center.

“If you need anything ‘round here, Miss Lefay; anything at all,” said the driver as he helped Celeste from the carriage. “You ask for Duncan Grange now.” He brought her bags down for her.

Celeste fished a coin from her coat pocket. “A penny for your kindness,” she said.

He accepted it solemnly and produced a small wooden pendant on a length of cord. “A blessing for your journey. May you persevere despite all against you.” Duncan touched the pendant to his lips, then her forehead, and then placed it around her neck. Celeste bowed her head in thanks before Duncan climbed back into the carriage and steered it towards the stables. It was an old blessing, common among country Fae, but strong. Celeste was grateful for the aid it promised to provide, both magically and symbolically.

She turned to the mansion just in time to see Lady Weatherby make her way out the front door. Lila Weatherby was as tall as Celeste, but more delicate. She was soft, ethereal, reminding Celeste of how their paths had diverged after they left boarding school. While Celeste chose the knife-hard path of the Office, Lila had been a lady of Society, both Fae and human, and met with obvious success with her long neck, heart-shaped face, and big sea-glass eyes. Her deep red hair was piled artfully on the crown of her head. She glided down the steps in a grey confection that floated around her frame, only marred by the black crepe band at her arm. Lila clasped Celeste’s hands expressively and kissed her cheek.

“I am eternally grateful you are here,” Said Lila, then added in a whisper. “Find my sister’s murderer.”

Celeste nodded and gave a reassuring smile. They linked arms and proceeded inside the manor, leaving the luggage to be taken directly to Celeste’s room. The two women passed through the grand, sweeping interior to the feminine stronghold that was the east salon. The wallpaper was a delicate floral spray, complimentary to the drapes in a demure mauve. Two matching wingbacks flanked the mantle, and between them a little table with a pot of hot tea at the ready. Lady Weatherby seemed to calm upon entering her imitation-garden. She gestured for Celeste to sit and poured the tea.

“What has caused you to think Lilith’s death was a murder?” asked Celeste upon accepting her cup.

“Lilith was always a fragile thing. You remember.” Celeste nodded, thinking back to the many times Lila would miss classes to care for her younger sister. “She got quite sick shortly after we moved to England.”

“How long ago, if I may ask?” Asked Celeste.

“Three years ago,” Answered Lila. “She came to live with us after her coming out. And after some three months, she had been improving wonderfully. This past year, she was the healthiest she’d been since we were girls. We would take daily walks in the garden. She was so happy here. Lilith would even attend parties with us, always dancing and flirting. She even found herself a beau over the winter. And then…” Lila paled and put her hand to her mouth. Celeste waited patiently while Lila composed herself. 

“Then she came home late one night very upset. She didn’t even speak to us, just went to her room. The next morning, she was too weak to leave her bed. Within a week she seemed to waste away until she was gone.”

“Where did Lilith go the night she got sick? How was her demeanor upon return?” Celeste asked. 

“She had gone to town to meet with her gentleman friend. She never did tell us his name. I assumed they had a fight that night because she came in the house crying. She ran straight up to her room without saying anything. Nothing I said could get her to open the door. She even threw things against the wall so I would leave her alone. And then by morning, it was too late.”

“Was there anything unusual outside that night?”

“It was terribly windy, though that’s not unusual at all. It’s an ill wind from the East that rattles the shutters and vexes the horses this time of year. Other than that, nothing happened. No one was even seen on the grounds.”

“Did you consider that anyone in this house could be the culprit, including yourself?” Celeste turned a fiery gaze upon Lila. 

“I beg your pardon?” Lady Weatherby looked at Celeste in surprise. 

“Because you wouldn’t have the slightest understanding of what your sister needs, so far from her homeland. You have no idea of how to retain your identity in the face of a charming human male, you race traitor” said Celeste viciously. “Oh, you call yourself a Fae. You say all the pretty words in the perfect accent. You throw parties on holidays and surround yourself with an appropriate gaggle of half-breeds and misfits, but you know nothing about being Fae. You rarely do magic unless your all-powerful human husband needs a parlor trick. With your lack of allegiance, I wouldn’t be surprised if you suffocated all the magic out of her.”

Anything resembling a proper lady vanished in Lila. She bolted from her chair, “You self-righteous viper! How dare you say such things,” She snarled. “We were born of the same earth, breathed the same aether in our youth. And we both live here now, you hypocrite. I loved my sister more than anything and I would die for her, and for Faerie. It was that boy who hurt her, that miserable human with Dark magic who killed my sister. Now do your job and find him!” 

She waved her hand emphatically and the chair where Celeste had been sitting flew out from under her. Celeste landed on the floor with an emphatic thump, then she smiled up at Lila. “That is exactly what I’ve been waiting to hear.” Lila’s eyes widened in shock. 

Celeste rose, brushed off her skirt, and looked the other woman in the eye, “I sincerely apologize for my harsh words to you, Lila, but I had to say them. I had to see how angry you would get. If someone is also threatening you, they will be hard-pressed to break your spirit with that spine you showed just now. And while there is strength in a temper, yours is not so volatile we cannot attempt some secrecy. There are, after all, some uninvited guests to this party. Am I making sense, Lila?”

Lady Weatherby nodded, regarding her friend like she was a talking salt cellar. “Wonderful,” said Celeste, unfazed, as she straightened the chair. “Understand, if I stride into this place, surgically attached to your side and asking meddling questions, we are never going to get anywhere. I will be too suspicious. Invite that usual gaggle of half-breeds and misfits over for the week. They should be women you know well and somewhat varied in their social circles. They need to be skilled in different areas of magic and know how to procure and keep information. I can’t protect you and investigate at the same time, Lila. Your entourage will be helping with that. This can also mask my arrival, which has not gone unnoticed already. Have the town think it’s some nature of party. Do you understand?”

“I believe so,” said Lila. “You are far more efficient than I expected.”

“I get the job done.”

The distinct sound of male voices carried over from the adjacent hallway through the drapes. They peeped their heads through the curtain to see two men conversing near the foyer. With enhanced acute hearing and preternatural stillness, the women were able to clearly see and hear the discussion without being noticed. Nearest the door was a wholesome-faced gentleman with sandy hair and fine clothing. He was speaking with a tall man whose nose must have been chiseled from the side of a cliff. Celeste recognized the former from the papers as Lord David Weatherby, landed gentry and passionate advocate for labor rights. The latter man had to be Sherlock Holmes. He did seem to look a tad younger than the illustrations in the Strand and possessed a kinetic energy no static representation could do justice. Celeste and Lila listened as Mr. Holmes made a remark that astounded Lord Weatherby, which he explained as a conclusion of his deductions. Celeste snorted derisively and pulled Lila back into the salon. 

“What do you know of this greyhound your husband has hired?” Asked Celeste. 

Lila shrugged, “I am told he is the best detective in England, among humans at least.”

“So I keep hearing,” said Celeste, irritated. “He has all the hallmarks of a self-glorified narcissist. The way he impressed your husband with that petty deduction made it clear. Such reasoning is bog standard among our Apprentice Officers, so why would he use it as introduction if not to flaunt his intelligence. He’s clearly using it to command respect and assert dominance. The deduction could also be an intellectual test. The closer one gets to his stride, the higher they rank in his circle of trust.” Her voice suddenly became soft and perilous. “But what would happen if someone were to surpass him?”

Celeste fixed her eyes on Lila. “Do not trust this man,” she commanded. “Know that, in this investigation, I will always consider your wellbeing first and take discretion into account. That man,” she pointed toward the hall; “does not care whether your secrets are exposed for the world to see. He has the eyes of a fox, always looking for some crack in the surface to get at his prey. Do not speak with him unless I am with you or I tell you what to say.”

“What if he comes to me?” Asked Lila.

“I will deal with the old greyhound. You worry about keeping safe.”

Lila smiled and nodded. “I should start writing those invitations. Shall I show you to your room?”

Celeste shook her head as her friend gestured to a side door, “I’m sure I can find my way.”

After Lila had gone, Celeste looked back in the direction of the hallway with a cocked eyebrow and a twisted smile. So, the alpha male thinks he can rule this pack? He had better understand how far from the comfort of London he was. Here there be monsters. Head held high, back straight, Celeste loudly drew back the curtain to the salon, announcing her presence to the men nearby. 

The men stopped their conversation and turned to her. She walked steadily down the hallway past them, giving Mr. Sherlock Holmes a sideways glance on her way. She did not timidly peer up through her lashes at him like some demure doe. She stared him down as a proud lioness. She was challenging him, and she could tell he recognized that. Celeste felt his intense gaze at the back of her head as she continued onward.

The games had begun.

\-------------------------

Wire from Brambleston to Baker Street:

Watson:

I remember you once spoke of spending some time with Fae during your military service. I apologize for dismissing it as unimportant in the moment, for now I need any advice as do dealing with Fae. Whatever information you have, especially on the temperament of their women, would be appreciated.

Holmes

P.S. I would greatly appreciate it if you would not mention this to anybody, ever.

Wire from Baker Street to Brambleston

Holmes:

It has been a very long while since I’ve kept company with any Fae. The women do retain some greater social liberties than their human counterparts, but I cannot recall any marked difference in their temperament. It is widely known that one should avoid angering Fae at all costs, regardless of sex. 

Watson

P.S. What sort of case is this, Holmes?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Sherlock Holmes has officially entered the picture! Thank you for your patience. Let's see how this case plays out, shall we?


	6. The First Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two investigators exchange their first words to each other in a field at sunrise... and none of those words are polite.

Celeste beat the dawn to the moor the next morning. After exiting the house undetected, she slipped through the garden toward the gray expanse beyond. She looked forward to her unhindered exploration in the melancholic sea of green hills and pools of fog, hoping to find some answers there in that bucolic emptiness. Celeste had found precious few answers the night before. She had taken the room adjacent to Lilith’s old room and sneaked inside last night to investigate. There was some minimal evidence of a crawlspace or hidden passage, but a recent remodeling of the estate by Lord Weatherby had obscured the entrance. She would have to try again or inspect the outside of the house for more evidence, and that could wait until daylight. 

Now was the time to inspect the moor, and find any evidence there was regarding this mysterious creature Duncan Grange warned her about. Celeste walked down the hill into a fog bank by the woods, her bright violet eyes seeing through the mist as though it were glass. No dismal beast to be found, but there was a vague path leading into the nearby forest. Celeste followed it. 

No sooner had Celeste passed the tree line than the sounds of footsteps stopped her in her tracks. In one swift movement, she turned and crouched low to the ground. She slid her hand inside her coat to her favorite knife resting snugly in its holster beside its three sisters. Celeste carefully looked up to see who had been behind her. In sharp contrast to the brightening sky stood a gangly silhouette shrouded in an Inverness. None other than that abhorrent man, Sherlock Holmes. 

Celeste cursed mentally. It was impossible for him to have followed her. She’d taken extra precaution in not being seen on the grounds, and the fog had been enough cover on the moor. The only other option was that the detective had the same idea that she did. The thought alone soured her stomach. Now anything and everything in the woods would hear that long-legged oaf coming.

With a soundless leap and twist, Celeste shimmied her way up a sturdy elm nearby. Those years of traversing London by leaping across rooftops and swinging between railings translated well to the old-wood forest around her. This way she was able to get considerable distance on the detective and get a bird’s-eye view of the surrounding area, all with minimum noise. Landing on the branch of an oak, Celeste stilled and observed her surroundings. All the songbirds were silent and hidden, as if a great fear stilled their voices. Only the stoic owls and ruthless hawks, hunters as perilous as she, remained in sight, though even they looked dour and weary. Small animals were thoroughly hidden in their underbrush homes, and lager animals were skittish, on the defensive. It was a dark threat indeed, to leave the animals wary of the night. As the light grew, some of the braver rabbits and squirrels ventured from their hiding places. Celeste noticed they were mistrustful of the path, meaning a human recently tread there. Animals don’t fear Fae.

Having learned all she could from the local fauna, Celeste indulged a glance back at Mr. Holmes. The detective was crouched to the ground, staring fixatedly on the path. After a moment, Holmes shot up and walked back to a spot near the tree line. Celeste recognized the area as her hiding place from earlier. Her presence had been noticed. She vaulted from her branch and followed her treetop pathway deeper into the woods, noting what looked like a ruined property marker on the way. After making good headway, Celeste touched earth again behind a large tree. For a moment, she rested and plotted how to best execute her mischief. Throwing someone off the trail was a simple and time-honored charm among her people and should she employ it, Celeste would have the answers all to herself soon enough. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she mentally constructed the thoughtform that would be sent as a distraction. It would be scarcely more than a shadow, the vague suggestion of a person, but it would be her size and shape, and would rustle undergrowth and leave tracks for a good ten feet. Waiting until the detective had walked closer, Celeste sent her shade deeper into the mist of the forest while she sprinted silently in the opposite direction. From the corner of her eye, she saw the man stand there for a full minute before dashing into the gloom after her illusion. She smiled to herself. How delightfully easy.

Celeste followed the line indicated by the old marker until it came to a clearing. Near the center stood an ancient tree. Its gnarled, wretched shape proved the tree’s old age far more than the height of the proud imposters surrounding it. Under and around its twisted roots were the stone remnants of a wall, a relic of the long-gone owners before the Weatherbys. They hadn’t been disturbed for many a decade, but they were nonetheless of value. The past was a bridge to the solutions of the present, and Celeste had readied for such an occasion. Some spells required preparation ahead of time, and sometimes a power source outside the caster. She had brought a few reliquaries holding a small reserve of her magic and they jingled at her belt, five antique coins strung along a chain. Removing one from its place, she laid it by the roots of the tree, and used rocks from the ruined wall to set a barrier around the tree in the four points of the compass. Then with practiced muscle memory, Celeste drew an arcane mandala in the air with her knife. The symbol crackled with energy, and as she made a motion to throw it at the base of the tree, the mandala glowed at her feet with violet light, growing to encompass all inside the barrier. Celeste touched the tree barehanded, speaking low in Fae and rotating her other hand counter-clockwise. The incantation complete, she closed her eyes and let the fragmented visions of object memory wash over her.

The wall was built by cold, uncaring hands. In its prime, it had been a high, unyielding sign of domination. Blood had been spilt here. The tree that had grown up beside it became stunted and bent within an atmosphere of cruelty and fear. An iron fist had lorded over this land. A man was hung here, a Fae man.

A snapping twig snapped not far from the clearing, wrenching Celeste from the macabre vision. Without her concentration, the spell collapsed and any evidence of it dissipated. The detective had found the real path, and he was gaining ground. Annoyed, she grabbed her spent reliquary and once again strode off into the mist. Let him make of her handiwork what he will. The first light of dawn was filtering down to the forest floor anyway, and Celeste had to be a respectable lady in time for breakfast.

A voice called out as she trenched through the woods. The detective was calling Celeste’s name into the forest with the irritation of a boy calling his wayward dog. Gritting her teeth, Celeste strode hard and fast back to the open moor, and the manor house beyond it. But apparently the man had some hidden speed within those grasshopper legs, and she could hear him catching up as she crested the hill preceding the garden. Reaching the end of her patience, Celeste halted, turned on her heel, and stared down the approaching man.

“Mr. Holmes, I have NEVER worn a size 11 loafer in my life, it is MY business where I choose to walk in the mornings, and do I LOOK like a rabid wolfhound to you? So, ask me something pertinent, or do your own investigating for a change and quit following me!”

As Celeste expected, Sherlock Holmes was visibly taken aback as all the questions he hadn’t asked were parried away with unexpected speed and anger. He even retreated a couple steps from the ferocity of the verbal assault, but his pride soon repaired, and he advanced until they stood toe to toe. He looked down at her from his impossible nose and raised an eyebrow. “Miss Lefay, I presume?” He crossed his arms over his chest. Her answer was to cock her head to the side and look up at him with the hint of a smile twisting at the corner of her mouth. She watched him as his grey eyes studied her, the speed of his mind revealed in the occasional quirk of his expression. After a moment’s observation, the detective nodded, as if confirming her motives to himself.

“Miss Lefay, I do understand you consider your alleged abilities to be quite important, but fortunately, all the important matters are currently being handled.” He had the gall to gesture to himself. “I think it would be a good idea to pack up your crystal ball, go back to London, and quit prolonging this family’s’ pain. And tell Director Grimm he should do well to remember sending an attack dog in skirts is not an effective deterrent.”

Celeste snarled. The gauntlet had been thrown, and both were aiming to kill. They circled like warring wolves and paced like fencers. Each focused their gaze intently on the other. Celeste spoke next, “So, sir, you admit to denying the existence of an entire race, one of which is standing before you?” Her voice colder than the wind that whipped around them and fiercely pulled at their coats. 

His answer was equally fierce. “I believe there is a tribe of people from a nebulous homeland who call themselves Fae. What is clear is that your people are no more magical than I am. All those great wonders in the papers could be explained with science and a natural tendency of trickery of a people bound together by the common delusion of authority.”

“Delusion would be a convenient answer for you, considering the uncomfortable alternative.” Celeste took a step forward. “Does Britain feel threatened by us, Mr. Holmes? Because if magic exists, there is something the mighty industry and power of the British Empire cannot control. Something the British man cannot subjugate to his own whims, but makes decisions he cannot fathom. That does sound culturally terrifying, I understand, but I gather it is understood better by those colonized under the British Crown. However, you are not an Empire man. No, you’re a man of science. And if magic exists, no matter if it operates by scientific properties, that means there’s something you don’t understand. And we can’t have that, no.” She paused, her smile growing. “Do you feel threatened by us, Mr. Holmes?” She asked. “Because it is clearly important you remain the superior intellect in the area. You absolutely have to be the famous, brilliant Sherlock Holmes at all times; otherwise, you are only that awkward boy living in the shadows of his brothers and the neglect of his parents.”

Holmes hid the pain of her words well. The slightest wince in his eyes betrayed the accuracy of her blow, but he was prepared to return the strike. He let out a long, absolutely performed, sigh. “Very good work, Miss. Very… standard work for the Liaison Officers. Not quite as obtuse collectively as Scotland Yard, but you are still, lock and step, a soldier of the State. It may be a State we do not share, but the Office and the Crown work as allies, so you are just as culpable in the Empire’s business as I. Now please tell me Director Grimm didn’t give you any false hope about becoming a hero before stuffing your brain with marching orders. Though I suspect you relished the opportunity to swing a knife around, regardless. That constant wall of hostility must be such a burden to maintain, though I can see the reasoning. The princess makes a tower for herself so not to be hurt again, safe from an unloving family and the rejection of not being a son.”

Celeste nearly gasped from the sting of the insult but stopped just shy of showing weakness. She snorted derisively. “How astute, how biting your observations, Mr. Holmes. However, not that personally tailored. You could ascribe those observations to any Officer in a general critique of the Office. I’m not immune, I admit. My words were liberally influenced by the Strand. I simply request that when next we speak, you actually look at me instead of projecting your petulance regarding Thaddeus Grimm my direction. But even that might be difficult for you, because consider this chilling observation: what if you’ve only seen what I allowed you to see?” A fresh bank of fog crept in on their circle. In the sunrise, it gave an eerie glow, and Celeste’s eyes seemed to grow brighter. “What if all your deductions have been manipulated by me, and the Celeste Lefay you think you know- “ 

The fog billowed up and blocked Celeste from Sherlock Holmes’ view.

“-is only an illusion.”

When the fog rolled away, Celeste was nowhere to be found. Only damp earth and tendrils of mist remained where the woman had been standing not five feet from the detective. Holmes spun around, looking for her, but she was gone. There was no sound of footsteps, nor any tracks leading away from the hillside. Miss Lefay had simply disappeared.

As Holmes dejectedly trod back to the manor, he heard girlish laughter wafting down from the patio balcony. He looked up to Lady Weatherby glide to the railing, her lavender dress glimmering in the morning sun, and behind her glided Celeste, nonchalantly trailing a parasol as if nothing had happened. She wore a different dress, frothy and white and nothing like the practical coat and boots he’d seen her wearing mere moments before. A completely different Celeste Lefay was standing before him. The women laughed together at some private joke, likely to do with their furtive glances at the eccentric detective walking on the moor, and even her laugh carried a separate timbre from the previous moment.

What on Earth was this woman?


	7. The Friends We Impressed Along the Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some new characters join the jamboree, and Celeste shows off.

Morning conversation with Lady Weatherby was croquet compared to the verbal combat with Sherlock Holmes. The expected talk of the Fae royal family and London gossip was a welcome rest after barely surviving her first encounter with the detective pride intact, and it gave her time to plan her next move should they speak again. He had proved to be much more of a challenge than she thought.

The two women took their breakfast on the veranda overlooking the breezy fields. Celeste gently rested her parasol on her shoulder to shield from the wind, as well as the prying eyes of certain men seated nearby. To his credit, he did not barge onto the patio that morning loudly exposing her duplicitous motives in arriving, but whether that was out of deference for her occupation or mere suspicion, she could not say. But it was prudent to be cautious just the same. Holmes and Celeste had not made eye contact since sunrise, and she planned to continue the act for the remainder of the day. 

It was Lila who first heard the clatter of wheels on the path. “Reinforcements have arrived,” She whispered to Celeste, taking her by the arm and dragging her out to the lawn. The gentlemen and staff trailed behind the ladies, the latter making a neat row to receive the incoming guests. The green and black carriage had just crested the hill with Duncan Grange proudly steering his roan mare. Duncan halted at the party gathered on the lawn and leapt down to open the carriage door. The first to exit the full carriage was an older woman with a mother’s rosy cheeks and contented bosom. Her faded auburn hair curled haphazardly out from under her large hat. The lady landed on the grass with a slight bounce, adjusted her dress, and curtsied to Lila. She nodded in return.

“Celeste, this is Mrs. Gwenyethe Ponce. Mrs. Ponce, meet Celeste Lefay,” said Lila, before adding in Celeste’s ear, “She’s excellent at protective wards.”

Celeste hummed an acknowledgement as the newcomer greeted her gregariously. It was clear Mrs. Ponce was Faerie-born, and from a family of Midwives from the state of her hands. Rather than live a life of servitude to a wealthy family back in the homeland, many midwives such as Mrs. Ponce emigrated. While several earned an honest, simple living in the human realm, others were able to rise in social and monetary ranks. Such a feat required exceptional cleverness and determination, and Celeste respected Mrs. Ponce’s resourcefulness to achieve her status, even if it meant marrying a human. 

Mr. Ponce exited the carriage after his wife. He was a sturdy gentleman with youthful eyes, a healthy beard, and a balding head. He gave a warm kiss to his wife’s cheek, nodded to the ladies, then strode onward to speak with the men.

The next two to emerge from the carriage were twin dolls scarcely out of girlhood. Their glassy ultramarine eyes looked impishly out through long lashes. Their chestnut hair was held in place by a matching ribbon and spilled over their shoulders; one falling over the right, the other falling over the left. The two moved constantly, flowing together as if pulled by a summer breeze. They whispered in each other’s ear and giggled as they joined the other women. 

Lila gestured towards the girls, “Meet Eleanor and Coronette Staunton. Charms and glamours, respectively.” The twins curtsied simultaneously, and Celeste suppressed a laugh. They were perfect examples of typical Fae debutantes born on the human side of the veil. For all the spotty magic and lessened power in this Realm, human decorum was in hot demand. These beauties were being trained in both etiquette and the most attractive types of magic so they could later be shipped off to Faerie and a wealthy husband. But here in their mischievous maidenhood, they could be allowed the freedom of an adventure or two, and Celeste was perfectly willing to use the Staunton twins’ potential to her advantage.

Another woman descended from the carriage, eschewing any help from the coachman. She sported a strong jaw and pinched mouth, features a man might reductively call ‘shrewish’, but Celeste recognized determination and professionalism when she saw it. Her sharp hazel eyes looked out perceptively over small glasses and her dark hair was drawn into a severe bun. Stray wisps curled around ears that weren’t quite as pointed as the other Fae women. The sharp lady nodded curtly at Lila and Celeste. Lila took her hand warmly, “A pleasure to see you again, Adelle. Celeste, meet Adelle Bouvril. Her father was Quintonne Bouvril, the celebrated potionist.”

Ms. Bouvril smiled widely. “Pleased to meet you Miss Lefay. You are not known for your social calls. I am pleasantly surprised.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” said Celeste truthfully. While Adelle fit the stereotypical role of stern, eccentric spinster, there was a clear wealth of charm and warmth in her personality purposefully hidden beneath her directness. Her accent and posture proved that she was born in France, not Faerie, and despite her talent and accomplished family, the Fae realm still considered her mixed pedigree lackluster. That archaic deference to class kept her from most opportunities in the Other Realm, so she made do as a novelty for the humans. Celeste could not blame her for her sharpness.

The females sequestered themselves away from the carriage, with the last passenger exiting behind them. It was a young man with an official air and an earnest face who strode quickly to the group of men on the other side of the lawn. Celeste surreptitiously observed him from behind her parasol. He was human, but moved among the Fae present like he was unafraid of magic. The man observed others attentively, giving each man he spoke to his clear attention with an open, not unattractive, smile.

“Who’s the young officer?” Asked Celeste with affected disinterest. Ms. Bouvril lifted an eyebrow and the Staunton sisters exchanged giggles.

“He would be Brambleston’s town constable, Andrew Clifton,” said Mrs. Ponce. “He is here to see Mr. Holmes. He couldn’t stop talking about him the entire way to the Manor.”

Celeste watched town constable Andrew Clifton stare at Sherlock Holmes with saccharine adoration. Four impatient years of homely larceny and drunken brawls, and now the boy got to see something exciting. There was a certain tragedy in wasted potential. 

The rough complaints of Duncan Grange distracted Celeste’s pity. “Now where’s that pup Monty with the bags. Can’t trust him with a smidge these days.” Grange craned his neck, trying to see further down the lane. First came the sound of a spirited rattle, followed by the sight of an agitated young stallion pulling a buggy full of luggage, and a nervous young boy struggling to regain control of the horse. Celeste could have almost timed it. The horse shook at his reins and kicked the buggy, sending his driver into the back with the bags. The harness snapped as the horse took off running and his load came careening after him. 

While the others around her were shouting or cursing, Celeste sprinted forward towards the center of the lane. She threw her parasol into a nearby shrub while her other hand gestured toward the horse. The stallion’s reins wrapped tightly around a tree branch. Then Celeste turned her attention to the cart. With foreign words and a wave of her hands, Monty was yanked from the cart by the collar into the soft turf. The bags were wrenched from their place as if Celeste had pulled some great, unbreakable thread, and they landed in a neat stack on an unoccupied patch of lawn.

However, the cart was still speeding toward Celeste with a vengeance. Her audience held their breath, but she only smiled. Moving in a fashion somewhere between ballet and martial arts, Celeste knelt down and crossed her arms in an ‘X’ above her head. The cart did not crash into her but glided over her on an ephemeral dome, shimmering like a violet soap bubble. The buggy rolled to a creaky stop just behind her.

Celeste’s attentions now turned to the terrified, reeling horse. Again, she spoke the odd, melodic language as she grasped the stallion’s bridle. Her words flowed into the air like a soothing breeze, and with each phrase her voice would gradually soften, steadying the horse. A pale violet glow grew around them with her words. She gently stroked the horse’s mane and placed her forehead to his, at this point barely whispering. The horse stood still, completely content, and perfectly calm.

The glow receded as Celeste led the now docile young animal back to Grange. A thunder of applause erupted from her audience, but Celeste demurred and shook her head. Holding out her hand, the parasol flew gracefully back to her on a slight wind. 

“That was a capital show of magic, dear lady. Well done!” Mr. Ponce called to Celeste.

Ms. Bouvril walked beside her. “Did you use the Bordeaux Military Ward or the Promenade?”

“You were always such a show-off,” whispered Lila as she took Celeste’s arm. 

Amidst the approving mass, Celeste noticed a lone figure standing rigid and stern at the back. The precise opinion she wanted to hear. She waved off her lieutenants and ambled to Holmes’ side. 

“Was that genuine enough for you, Mr. Holmes? Or was it my natural tendency for trickery?” His only answer was an unmappable expression and silence. Celeste gave him one long acid look before turning away and lowering her veil once more.


	8. The Coven in the Salon

It was high tea in Brambleston, and an industrious spider named Celeste Lefay was casting out her web. She stood authoritatively before the mantlepiece in the east salon, commissioning her skirted legion. 

“My dear ladies,” she began. “It is an honor to meet you all, and I preemptively extend my gratitude. I have no doubt you’ve already ascertained Lady Weatherby’s invitation extended beyond the social. You have been selected for your talents to aid me in my investigation.”

Celeste first turned to the Staunton twins with an impish grin. “I need the two of you to do what you do best.” They leaned forward with eager eyes. “You are to insert yourselves into the local tangles of gossip and procure the name of Lilith’s former beau. He was not well moneyed or bred, otherwise he would’ve made himself known to the family earlier.” Celeste looked to Lady Weatherby who solemnly nodded agreement. 

“Ms. Bouvril,” Adelle stiffened. “I shall need your assistance examining the local genealogies, both still existing and defunct. Whoever once lived next door to this estate had a sordid, cruel history. Such hate buried underground makes dark magic more easily accessible. And I’d like to know if any possible descendants still carry that shadow.”

“And my dearest Gwenyethe,” purred Celeste. Mrs. Ponce stopped her chattering to Lila with a squeak. “You will be visiting the local Midwife Circle to understand the exact nature of this beast that has been rumored to hunt each night. They are the ones who use magic most within this community, and they should understand the precise breed of supernatural with which we are dealing.”

Celeste straightened and stood like a true Officer. Harsher orders were coming, and the group of women tensed in preparation. “Everyone,” she said, her voice commanding and stern. “The life of Lila Weatherby, your sister in Faerie, your personal friend, is being threatened. I have been charged with protecting her as well has finding the culprit responsible. As I cannot do both simultaneously, you have been commissioned to aid the investigation. Any failure on your part in either objective, and I shall hold you responsible. Lila is not to be alone, save in the privacy of her boudoir. No one is to go outside the grounds at night, and no one is to walk alone on the road. Keep as wary of your own safety as you are of Lila’s. And regarding the men accompanying us,” Celeste set her jaw. “They are to know nothing of our actions. Lord Weatherby has a loving wife grieving the death of her sister. We are here to comfort her. As eager as Constable Clifton is to help, this is our matter, and the only authority we need is that of the Fae Liaison Office. And that greyhound Sherlock Holmes,” The ladies giggled slightly at the annoyance creeping into Celeste’s voice. “-is not to be acknowledged in any form. Avoid him at all costs, even to the point of rudeness. I will keep him at bay if need be. He does not have authority in this investigation. I do, a point you all would do well to remember also. Am I making myself clear?”

A wave of assenting nods rippled across the room. Celeste smiled approvingly. “Very good. I shall expect you to report your findings at the end of each day. Thank you for your time.” She looked pointedly at Lila Weatherby, and they both left the room as the others engaged in less serious conversation. 

“Do you have it?” murmured Celeste as they walked through the corridors. 

Lila patted the pocket of her dress. “And Harrison has set up everything in the kitchen as you instructed.”

“Excellent.” Celeste said, still looking forward. They passed into the main kitchen. The cook was waiting for their arrival by the range, tending a small pot of boiling water. A basket of freshly gathered wildflowers and herbs lay nearby. With a nod, Lady Weatherby dismissed the cook from the room and locked the doors behind them. Celeste drew the curtains and retrieved the long silver pin from her hair. She whispered into the vessel and pricked the water’s surface with the pin. The bubbles began to spiral inward.

Celeste held her hand out to Lila without looking up from her work. “Give it to me.” Lila took something wrapped in a handkerchief from her pocket. Celeste used her pin to unwrap the linen square and retrieve a jet mourning brooch. A pair of somber ravens were engraved into the stone, itself set in an austere silver casing. To the naked eye, it was a mundane, if tasteful, piece of mourning jewelry, but Celeste was careful not to touch it with bare skin. “When did you first sense the effects of the curse?” She asked.

“Shortly before the wake,” said Lila quietly. “I was enchanting a bouquet of roses to bloom as I dressed, and the moment I donned the brooch, the roses…” She sighed. “They withered and died.”

Celeste gently lowered the jewelry into the boiling water, which by now had acquired a violet tinge. “And has there been any other sign of a threat to your life?” She asked coldly. The water grew increasingly murky and dark.

“Last week I was on the outskirts of the garden, near the open moor. It was late afternoon, and I had just finished cutting some flowers when I got the distinct impression of being watched. It did not feel like a person’s normal gaze, but that of someone who sought to do harm. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was an attempt at the Evil Eye Hex. I looked around me, expecting the person to be quite near; so intense was that emotion. However, I could see no one in any direction I turned. It was so startling that I dropped the flowers and ran inside.”

As she listened, Celeste gathered some of the pale purple wildflower blossoms and began to idly crush them in her hand. “What was the precise time the incident occurred? And where exactly were you in the garden, especially in relation to the Manor?”

“It happened at sunset. The bell rang for dinner soon after I returned to the house. I was on the west rim of the garden; the house wasn’t even visible from that side.”

There was now a fine paste of what was once a cluster of flowers in Celeste’s hand. She started wrapping it around a large sprig of sage. “So whoever gave you the Evil Eye was on the western end of the moor. Sunset obviously blinded you from seeing your adversary. Our eyes may be strong, but the light can always be stronger.” With her opposite hand, Celeste readied her pin at the rim of the boiling pot. In one rapid flourish, she then flung the poultice into the pot while creating a magical seal over the top. There was a rending sound, and a smoky, clawing thing rose from the murk and made a sudden attempt to fight its way past the protective field. Lila shrieked slightly and jumped back, but Celeste calmly observed the curse demon with an inquisitive eye. Satisfied with her findings, Celeste spoke to the thing in Fae. “You have lived the life you were meant to live. Your purpose ran its course.” The demon dissolved into a cloud of smoke after a final fit of sputtering and writhing, and the murkiness dissipated. With a snap, Celeste turned off the gas and the water ceased to boil. She gingerly fished out the brooch and placed it back upon the handkerchief before turning to the shaken Lady Weatherby. “Was there recently a time this brooch was not in your possession?” 

“The clasp broke two days before the wake. I had it repaired by a jeweler in town. His name is Hangley, I believe. But he would never…”

“Let me gather the remaining evidence before we make any assumptions about the moral fiber of local humans,” interrupted Celeste. “Now, I believe Harrison will be needing the kitchen back for making our dinner.” 

The two women opened the curtains and the doors, letting in the afternoon sun as well as an impatient cook. She immediately threw the contents of the pot out the open window as her mistress exited. Celeste mentally thanked Harrison for removing the evidence of her cleansing spell, bemusedly noting any after effects would be felt only by the daffodils outside the kitchen.

On their return journey to the east salon, a door opened and a dark figure separated Celeste from Lila. Lila was able to evade the figure and continue on her way, but Celeste was cornered. She didn’t even have to look up to know the obstacle’s identity.

It was Sherlock Holmes.


	9. The Difference in Debates and Squabbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two Rivals meet over dinner conversation. Neither has learned to be polite.

Holmes led Celeste into the empty library with a gentle hand on her shoulder. His words, however, were less than gentle. “I hope your theatrics with the carriage this morning have helped to improve your attitude.” 

She only set her jaw and stared at the opposite wall in response. His annoyingly sardonic voice continued.

“And if you are going to continue your petulance and spare me of your voice, I will use that advantage to inform you of the shortcomings in your choice of accomplices. The Staunton twins will become distracted if you leave them unchecked, and do not expect them to be discreet about your intentions. Ms. Bouvril will become resentful if you are not careful to regard her intelligence, and she might withhold information as a result. Mrs. Ponce will try to control the social dynamic and steal Lela’s trust. She’s a middle-aged mother and social climber, it is her way. Your rank will not impress her when she holds age in higher esteem. And concerning Lady Weatherby, if you are not careful, you will grow aloof and distant from her, and she will lose all confidence in you and turn to another. You depend far too much upon the competence of others in your investigation, Miss Lefay.”

“Have you finished?” Asked Celeste, her voice devoid of the slightest emotion.

He shifted his weight, and Celeste warily glanced his direction. “I can scarcely begin now,” said Holmes, more to himself than her. “Now that everything has changed.” His grey eyes met her violet, a slight accusation in his gaze commanding her attention. “Thanks to you.”

“Perhaps you should think of today as an admonition for the future,” came Celeste’s icy response. With a feral twitch, she freed herself of Holmes’ grasp and stormed out of the room.

Celeste could have exsanguinated Sherlock Holmes.

Far too enraged to tolerate any company, Celeste bypassed the salon and stomped upstairs to her room to change for dinner, fuming over her rival the entire way. How that arrogant, contemptuous lamppost of a so-called detective had the presumption to tell her how to do her job must surely be a death wish. The way he had to lord himself over her and dictate the situation was infuriating enough.

But did he have to be completely right?

Celeste was equally angry at herself for her carelessness. She could maintain her mask of ambiguity, but her compatriots had their personalities on full display during her garden exhibition. Every hole in her web that gnawed at the edge of her mind had been ripped open and thrown in her face by the spindly hands of Sherlock Holmes. Now Celeste would have to work twice as hard if she wanted to maintain the investigative edge she normally preferred. She would have to work twice as hard to protect her allies from themselves as well as their enemies. And most pressingly, she would have to work twice as hard to control that violent impulse toward the detective.

\--------------

As Sherlock Holmes followed the other gentlemen into the dining room, he was pleased to observe Miss Lefay sitting quietly in her seat while the other women were happily chatting. His reproof that afternoon seemed to have effectively quieted her. Before he could enjoy his victory however, Holmes looked over to see her glaring at him for a fraction of a second. That haughty face and the twisted snarl on her lips belied a thinly controlled temper and a considerable sense of superiority. 

But with the entrance of the first course, the girl pulled her intense nature behind the refined facade. Both Officer and detective devolved into non-entities for most of the meal, allowing the conversation to whorl and eddy around them like the sea around Gibraltar. It was nearing dessert when Mr. Ponce, aided in his confidence by three glasses of port, broke their silence.

“After this morning, I bet you’ll be looking at things differently, Mr. Holmes. From what I read in the papers, you are a bit of a skeptic. Hard to explain away Miss Lefay’s excellent display of this morning.”

Idly twirling his fork around his long fingers, Holmes paused a moment before answering, “I must confess that, for good or ill, benevolence or destruction, there is far more of the extraordinary in this world than I had earlier perceived.”

His eyes rested on Celeste as he finished, and how she took those words and what opinions she held of them, he could not tell. 

“Mr. Holmes,” Interjected Constable Clifton. “I find it difficult to believe you’ve done such wondrous work in London without ever coming across Fae magic.” 

“London is a big place, Constable. I have barely begun to acquaint myself with the full depth of the Great City’s human side, much less the magical one. And, like most minority populations in large cities, they rarely seek the help of a member of the majority. In social matters, they keep to themselves. And for any matters of law, there is, of course, the Office.”

While Holmes purposefully did not look at Miss Lefay for that statement, he did notice her exhale slowly in his periphery, as if she were expecting him to say more. He had to keep from rolling his eyes at her histrionics. Even if her motives were as obvious as the color of the tablecloth, Holmes knew a disguise when he saw one. As superfluous as he found her presence, he had the intelligence not to risk the exposure of her occupation. 

“Maybe after your visit, that can change,” spouted Clifton with an eager smile. “Then the Office can come asking for your help, like Scotland Yard does. After all, there is much opportunity for humans to learn in the field of magic.”

Assorted Fae eyebrows shot skyward. “Nonsense,” said Ms. Bouvril sternly. “Fae are the ones most genetically compatible with magic. For a human to attempt such things would not only be dangerous, but a perversion of nature.”

Cutcliffe laughed incredulously. “I would think perversion is a rather harsh way to put it.”

“Not necessarily,” Celeste interjected casually. “Historically, when a human obtained unbidden magical power, they have grown to use it to the detriment of those around them. Even if they could physically withstand it, its use increases the potential for tyranny, malice, and criminality.” With the last word she cut a glance at the studiously attentive Holmes. 

“After such a blistering description of magic, are we to trust Fae blindly with the same abilities?” Holmes said, meeting her gaze and holding it. “Or is it just because magic is foreign to humanity? In which case, I suggest keeping gunpowder and trains away from Fae hands, for their own good of course. Absolute power corrupts absolutely, my dear, and if I’ve learned anything in my work, it is that criminality is a disease that infects all populations, regardless of their technologies.”

Any further rebuttals Celeste had would have been extremely unladylike, so she merely stared daggers at her opponent. Lady Weatherby furrowed her brow in thought. “But this is your realm, not our Faerie, and humanity and Fae are not equal opposing factions. We have a smaller population, with no nation to call our own on this side of the veil. Don’t you think it’s disingenuous to judge our kind by the standards of a system in which we took no part in making?”

“I say wouldn’t exactly that, Dearest,” said Lord Weatherby. “We must consider both sides of the issue. There is a touch of unfairness when the person standing next to you has the same chance at life, but possesses powers from which you yourself are barred…”

“David, this is not another one of your labor disputes. You know it’s different.” Interrupted Lady Weatherby with surprising emotion.

“Fine, Lila. That’s enough,” he snapped back. 

A painful silence followed. Most guests pretended to be fascinated with the flatware, while Holmes and Lefay fervently wished to return to their previous invisibility. Holmes looked disparagingly over at the harridan worrying the knuckle of her index finger between her teeth. It was their- no, her- penchant for picking fights which had widened a rift in the two people most at risk in this case. The exact two people who had given them their trust. Holmes resolved, hopefully permanently, that if the little viper wanted to snap at him, she would have to wait.

The case was far more important.


	10. The Rose Garden Skirmish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These two rivals seem to have come to their boiling points, or has a greater threat emerged?

The grandfather clock chimed half past one as Sherlock Holmes silently crept past and out the door to the veranda. The wan light of his lantern cast a pale-yellow beam on the grass. As he quickly made his way to the rose garden, Holmes smugly remembered how, while a certain petulant little Fae was being theatrical, he found a rather important clue. 

He found the statue hiding deep within the enveloping tendrils of the rose vines. Holmes considered the hunchbacked gargoyle a rather peculiar addition to the sea of reds and pinks. Equally as peculiar were the sweeping pair of bat wings fanning from the monster’s shoulders to the ground, looking suspiciously like a pair of cellar doors. Holmes tread softly closer to inspect them, careful not to disturb any possible footprints. They were metal, unlike the stone of the statue, but painted to match. There was indeed a long seam splitting the two wings, and a handle hidden on each side. Scratches marred a section near the opening, recent from the lack of dirt, a scrap of cloth tufted out near the base. 

As he carefully tested the stone statue to find any alternate entrance, a succession of knocks rapped from the base of the lifeless beast. Holmes recoiled with a jolt, cursing his treacherous heart for nearly exploding in his chest. The knocks continued, softening and steadying to resemble footsteps. Holmes stepped back into the darkness, crouched among the roses as he doused his torch and readied his cane. Human or beast, he would be prepared for whatever came out of that door. 

The pounding tattoo came closer and closer until the wait became almost unbearable. Then all sound stopped. Holmes held his breath for almost a minute. A winged door slowly began to creak open, and a shadow slipped out. As the figure cautiously closed the doors behind it, Holmes saw his opportunity. With a leap, he shot from the dark and deftly swung his cane towards the person’s head. 

…Only for that person to reach up and catch it mid-swing. The two grappled over the cane, neither gaining an advantage in agility nor strength. The cane suddenly flew from Holmes’ hands with a whistle of air, and before he could register a familiar voice, he was soundly kicked in the face.

Flat on his back in the grass, Holmes watched the clouds uncover a bright half-moon, bringing several observations to light. Firstly, those clouds looked like impending rain. Secondly, the roses nearest his head were in desperate need of watering. And lastly, his attacker was none other than an extremely aggravated Celeste Lefay. 

The woman had thoroughly trounced him like a leopard with an impala, except most leopards, or women for that matter, did not wear scuffed riding boots and breeches. Her hands settled on her hips as she cocked her head to one side, regarding the detective with incredulous annoyance. It would have been a comical sight, had Holmes not noticed the knife handle peeking from her coat, or how her hand twitched for it.

She sighed indignantly and walked to his side, kneeling to put a gloved hand on his chest before he could get up. “Mr. Holmes, I understand you have little experience with the Liaison Office or my people, so allow me to educate you,” She said calmly, though her eyes shot daggers. “You do not want me to be angry with you. At the moment, I am only slightly irritated. Now, as I do not wish to damage your fragile male disposition, I am going to stand up, turn around to compose myself, and then I am going to forget this incident ever happened. I suggest you do the same. I am favoring you for your inexperience, but interfere with my investigation one more time,” For half a moment, she pressed down hard on his sternum, solidly pinning him to the ground as if a cannon rolled on top of him. “And you will see just how angry I can get.”

Celeste walked away to repair the sorely mistreated braid in her hair, and Sherlock Holmes stood up to repair his sorely mistreated pride. The girl had shrugged off her utter thrashing of him as a trifle, even insinuating she wasn’t using her full strength. Every fiber in his being wanted to retaliate verbally, but Holmes remembered Watson’s advice against further provocation. But still a pestering worm of curiosity wriggled in the back of his mind, needing satisfaction.

“Was it the combat training that caused your family to disown you?” He asked offhandedly.

She turned to him with an unaffected expression. “Explain yourself.”

“The explanation is rather simple. You speak and move like an aristocrat- for the most part-, but you can’t seem to afford-“

“-A decent pair of boots. I understood what you meant, you buffoon,” Celeste snapped back. “When I said, ‘explain yourself’, I meant ‘in relation to your current spatial location at this moment’. In other words, why are you here?”

He drew up to his full height and bared his smuggest grin. “This morning, I found that hidden door into the manor.” He gestured towards the gargoyle. “which apparently escaped your notice during your performance.” Holmes’ smile broadened as she winced in realization of her oversight.

“Now to you, I ask the same question, with the added caveat of ‘where did you come from?’”

Celeste raised an eyebrow. “I was able to open the other secret door in Lilith’s former bedroom,” His grin disappeared. “which you apparently failed to notice when you felt it necessary to give me a scolding.”

Holmes was doing his infinite best to be polite. “Noted, however, seeing as this door leads from the Westernmost part of the garden into the manor, it is more useful in determining how the murderer entered to poison Lilith Montclair.”

“If the inner door is situated directly in Lilith’s room, it is surely more important to ascertain the murderer’s motives, and which curse he used,” She shot back.

Now she was just being absurd. “My dear Miss, I fail to see how colorful language could cause anyone’s death. I can and will prove to you the cause of death was poison.”

Celeste huffed. “I can and will turn you into a rat so you can fit into that nose. It would be breaking the law, but I am extremely well-connected.”

That was it. Politeness be damned. “Mighty boasting from such a delicate creature. Do remember not to trip over those boots when you run shrieking from my transfigured form. Bursting out into hysterics over the smallest of trifles is a trait found in the most ostentatious of circus stallions… and women.”

His sparring partner was practically seething. “Delicate creature.” She spoke it like an obscenity. “Delicate creature describes butterflies and rare fish. You have yet to find words that accurately describe me. I am Fae, foolish mortal. My ancestors formed pantheons. I am powerful. I fear nothing. I am a warrior, and you, O best mind of humanity, have proven to be nothing more than a DERRYN.” The last word she spat out with a snarl.

Holmes remained unfazed. “Some common, folkloric Fae term, I imagine,” he said with a titanic amount of arrogance in his voice.

Her expression positively curdled. “Derryn is high Fae for one who is a nuisance, as in rock in my shoe, thorn in my side, YOU in my way.” She shoved him aside for emphasis and stomped towards the end of the rose garden.

Wanting no more weighted threats or blows to the face, Holmes wisely walked in the opposite direction to retrieve his cane. This was surely his last battle with Miss Lefay. Even as he sought to focus his concentration on the case, he was surprised to find that the leopard had made her own headway. Clearly, she is not just the thorny agent of Director Grimm’s petulance as Holmes previously thought. However, while his opinion of her skills was not quite as subterranean as when they met, he was not about to be upstaged by a feisty little soldier girl. 

“Mr. Ha- um- Sher-… Derryn!” Celeste sputtered harshly.

Holmes was about to ask Celeste if she would kindly insult him in Queen’s English when he caught sight of her expression. She stood woodenly with her arms hanging listless at her side. Her wide violet eyes stared fixedly into the woods beyond the garden, and her mouth was moving soundlessly, as if searching for a word she had forgotten.

Unnerved by the sudden change in his rival’s demeanor, Holmes peered into the darkness to find what could possibly have caused such a reaction. Then his mouth went dry, and his blood ran cold. He barely noticed the distant rumble of thunder, because a pair of sickly, cavernous eyes was glaring back at him. They held no pupil, only an opaque glaze of greenish yellow. If death had a designated color, it would be that green. Those eyes were wells filled with fathomless depths of rot, sickness, and poison. Holmes tasted bile in the back of his mouth and was nearly sick.

And with a gruff whisper, Celeste found the word she’d been searching for. “Run.”


	11. The Storm of the Century

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a fight, a chase, and Sherlock Holmes recognizes his privilege.

With the first flash of lightning, Holmes remembered the proper function of his legs. He careened through the rose garden down to the southern tree line as rain began to pelt down in suffocating waves. His hair drizzled down into his eyes, further obscuring what should be a trail before him. He was now running blindly in the forest during a storm with some unknown terror pursuing him. The night was proving a lively one indeed. 

After the latest crash of thunder, Holmes heard an atrocious, rending shriek some yards behind him. No matter how blind and lost the inclement weather made him, Holmes decided the right direction was the fastest direction away from the creature, so he resolutely doubled his speed and cursed setting down his lantern during the encounter with Miss Lefay.

The Leopard. He felt as though a knife plunged through the bottom of his stomach. The detective hadn’t even noticed if she had started running at all, and now he had no idea where she was. His fight-or-flight must’ve overridden his sense of decency, and he’d all but left her at the mercy of that thing in the dark. Holmes skidded to a stop on the trail, nearly falling in the mud. He looked behind him to see a dark, nimble shadow leap from the ground and vault over his head.

The figure whirled around to face him and grabbed the sleeve of his coat. “Do not stop! Quit thinking! Keep running!” yelled the blur in Celeste Lefay’s voice. All Holmes could clearly discern of her features were her eyes, faintly glowing in the darkness with the tapetum lucidum of a wild beast. She yanked at his arm violently, and they were running once again.

Adrenaline pulsed a tribal tattoo between his temples, urging him to run faster as he vainly tried to keep pace with the Fae. She sprinted like a gazelle, often leaping as high as ten feet over any obstacles in her way. An urgent compulsion to follow her emerged in the back of his mind, becoming more pronounced with each mud puddle and passing tree branch. Each time she vaulted out of his sight, the suggestion led him back towards her. Whenever Holmes tried to deviate to a different path, a mental voice of warning would deter him, and his feet would intuitively return to the trail. He suspected it was no mere coincidence the warning voice was more feminine in tone. 

It felt like hours before they came upon an open field. Lightning eerily illuminated the stormy sky with surreal mauves and blues. Only then did Celeste slow to a stop, hesitantly scanning the horizon as Holmes caught up, wet and gasping with exertion. He noticed her eyes finally rest on a crumbling stone structure halfway across the hills.

She grabbed Holmes’ wrist again and pointed towards the stones. “You’re safe in that churchyard,” She shouted over the thunder. “ Get there as fast as you can. I’ll distract it.”

The unholy shriek came from behind again, uncomfortably close. Holmes darted across the countryside, willing his legs to move faster than their ability as his every muscle already burned from exhaustion. There was a violet flash in his periphery, followed by another screech. He forced his eyes to stay focused on the crumbling chapel that seemed to stay forever in the distance. Snatches of childhood prayers Holmes presumed evicted from his memory years ago raced across the back of his mind.

It felt like it took an eternity, but the detective stumbled headlong into the tiny churchyard. No sooner did he gratefully cling to the mossy stones of the wall than another violet flash illuminated the night. He whirled around and shut the gate behind him. The heavy iron gate was orange with rust, and both overgrowth and old hinges tested Holmes’ strength as he shoved it closed. He slid down to the damp earth, breath coming in ragged, hoarse gasps. It had been some time since he’d run that fast, particularly on the unpredictable turf of the countryside, and longer still since he’d been the quarry. The gate rattled violently behind him, startling Holmes enough to send him scrambling. He looked up to see Celeste somersault over both the gate and himself, then deftly land atop a crypt. In pursuit behind her was the ghoulish creature barreling straight for them. Holmes stood and looked warily between the Fae and the encroaching monster. Celeste defiantly stared the latter down. The smoky blur with dead eyes and grasping claws took no heed of the obstacle between them and slammed against the gate. The thing writhed and contorted the moment it touched holy ground, howling in pain at such dissonance Holmes’ ears threatened to implode. It screeched its dreadful shriek once more before shooting like a comet into the stormy sky and disappeared amongst the grey storm clouds. 

Holmes looked back to Celeste standing on the crypt. Lightning flashed behind her, framing her victorious smile and impossible eyes. Her expression showed no fear or uncertainty, but the calm pride akin to that of the triumphant general or winning fencer. This moment was the culmination of the plan she began to engineer from the moment she spotted opaque eyes in the darkness.

The true nature of Ms. Lefay’s character became dauntingly obvious. She was one of those rare women who possessed a soul of steel, cut of the same cloth as Boadicea and Elizabeth Tudor. A woman for whom society could not possibly contain, so they deign to change it. A man is rare if he perchance meets one such lady in the course of his lifetime. Holmes now had the dubious honor of coming across two.

The last remnants of the dying storm somewhat anticlimactically dissipated into mist, leaving a canopy of starlight to illuminate the fields. Holmes looked at the moon; noting from its position that barely an hour had passed since he had stepped outside. He heard Celeste climb down from the crypt behind him. Sherlock Holmes drew a deep breath and decided to exhibit some maturity.

“I am unaccustomed to the concept of women who contribute intellectually to society in equal part to men,” he said with the slightest softness. “There are countless human women to refute that notion enough, Countess Ada Lovelace, Lady Stanhope, Her Majesty, I know; but it is difficult to detect the poisoned waters of an oppressive society when you are the fish breathing it. And I have been such a fish.” Holmes laughed grimly and turned to face Officer Lefay. She stood watching him pensively, her head slightly cocked to the side, expression inscrutable.

“You are clearly accustomed to receiving equivalent respect to your peers, and while -in my case- that is a difficult task regardless of sex, however you have proven your competence and tenacity several times over. I offer my humblest apologies that I have not given you your due deference. More so, you have saved my life and to that I owe my deepest gratitude.” 

Holmes sighed, finally met her eyes, and held his hand out in the space between them. Her eyebrow quirked upward, the significance of a human Englishman of his standing offering her the handshake of equals not lost to her. For a heartbeat, they stood staring at each other, their mind’s eyes acclimating to the new light illuminating the two.

Then Celeste shrugged, her smile slowly twisting upward. “Apology accepted,” she took his hand and gave it a decisive shake, like a rich American on holiday. Holmes’ couldn’t help but match his smile to hers. 

“Now, I have many questions that require your expertise. Most importantly,” he paused, becoming distracted by something at Celeste’s elbow. “Did you know you were bleeding?”

With some surprise, Celeste looked down to see a rivulet of blood creeping down her arm. She peeled back her glove to find a jagged little cut on the heel of her hand. She looked over to the rusty iron gate and groaned.

“This will not heal quickly,” she said, but then added hastily, “but I’ll be fine.” She snapped her glove shut tightly.

Nominally satisfied with Celeste’s explanation, Holmes continued, “And my next question…” His voice sobered. “What was the thing that pursued us?”

Celeste looked warily back at the woods. “From what I can tell, the murder weapon.”

Before he could ask for clarification, a low scraping sounded from the interior of the chapel. Holmes drew his revolver near as swiftly as Celeste drew her knife. The rasping of stone on stone continued to crescendo into a crash. As they crept towards the doorway, Holmes gently motioned Celeste behind him, out of habit and muscle memory. She indignantly cleared her throat, and the detective turned to see her glaring at him with an expression mirroring one he’d often use with Lestrade. With a contrite bow, he conceded as Celeste moved ahead and soundlessly slipped through the archway. 

Holmes felt his way through the opening after her. The chapel stones were wet and slippery from the rain that leaking inside from the holes in the roof, which did nothing to allay the absolute darkness that welled in the shadows. They crept through around the corners, weaving through the crumbling sepulchers to get a better view of the commotion at a grave nearer the altar.

A small lantern hung awkwardly from a sconce, bathing the altar in undulating yellow light. The figure of a man, thin with a bent back, appeared to be kneeling at a tomb with its lid pushed aside. With a hammer and stake, the figure banged and clanged his way through the hinges of a coffin, occasionally punctuating his efforts with a cough or wheezy laugh.

A rustling to Holmes’ left caused him to look and see Celeste shift into a more predatory position. Her scowling face portrayed a fearsome Madonna in the lamplight. She looked noticed him briefly, flashed the ghost of a wink, then leapt into the air towards the aisle. Simultaneously, the lantern’s flame burst into blinding white light. The man yelped and nearly fell into the grave he was robbing as he started to run away. Celeste was right behind him.

“Hello, my graverobbing friend.” Purred Celeste as he stopped short of running into her. Holmes had joined the pair in the aisle from the other side, heading off the thief. 

As the Officer and detective boxed him in further, the man spun rapidly between the two, flailing his hammer and stake vaguely in their direction. Holmes dodged the hammer as it nearly grazed his face. The thief made a lunge at Holmes, but Celeste was quicker. She tripped him and tried to grab him by the collar as he fell, but he suddenly turned swinging around his arm before she could recover.   
What Sherlock Holmes would always remember about those seconds before the lights went out was how unexpectedly little noise the wooden stake made as it stabbed into the abdomen of Celeste Lefay.


	12. The Price of Secrecy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of a supernatural chase, Holmes needs answers & Celeste needs time to heal.

No matter how scientific a man’s mind, no matter stoic his resolve, there are seven or eight injustices any decent man must feel a surge of divine rage to witness. Sherlock Holmes had just watched number five. It was almost incomprehensible the Fae leopard had been felled by such a whimpering weasel, but his senses did not lie.

He saw her shivering shadow slumped on the floor.

_You could have saved her_ , whispered the venomous voice of Guilt in his ear.

He heard her ragged, gasping breath.

_This is Watson’s kind of job_ , came Guilt’s brother, Helplessness from his other ear. _What can you do?_

He smelled the metallic reek of blood.

_Which Watson is not here because he is nursing a sprained ankle and a cold from the last case_ , chimed in Guilt once again. _Also your fault._

Though it felt like hours, Holmes’ torturous inner monologue lasted just long enough for the grave robber to recover from shock. There was a rustling stir of air just right of Holmes’ shoulder. With reflexes any Liaison Officer would envy, he snatched the man by his sweaty collar and pinned him to the wall of a moonlit corner, his cane pressing hard on the man’s Adam’s apple.

“I warn you, Sir, I have a revolver, and after your actions, I am inclined to use it regardless of how you behave.”

“N-no, Please don’t,” wheezed the thief. “Have mercy on an old man!”

Holmes snarled and pressed harder on his neck. “Why should I, when you showed no mercy to the young woman you just gutted? Now tell me why you’re here. And was it you who set that ghoul upon us?” 

“I didn’t do none of that. I was just told where to go for a good haul. Didn’t even know what was out there, they only said to stay in the church after sundown. Please believe I didn’t mean no harm. Just doin- Aaahhh!” The old man’s eyes bulged, focused on a spot three feet behind his interrogator. Holmes turned to see the bloodstained stone where Officer Lefay had once been, but she was nowhere to be seen. 

“That weren’t no woman,” mumbled the thief. “An unholy abomination. A witch. Are you one too?”

Too late, Holmes noticed the glint of silver that appeared in the grave robber’s hand. However, an arm shot out from the shadows and blocked the man mid-swing. “You’re one to talk of unholy,” said the voice of Celeste Lefay. She twisted his arm, using the stake still slick with her own blood to pry the knife from his hand. As the blade clattered to the ground, Holmes kicked it away. 

“And I’m not a witch. Mind your manners.” Celeste stepped fully into the circle of moonlight, her face deathly pale and coat tinted with red. She pressed the stake to his throat, the pointy end indenting the skin under his jaw. “Now, who told you to come here?”

The grave robber only whined pitifully.

“Someone told you to come here and when. Whatever they’re offering to pay you is not enough for what I am going to do if you stay silent. Now, give me a name!” Shouted Celeste. Holmes heard a hint of desperation in her voice. Then he noticed her measured breathing and the clenched fist covering her wound. There wasn’t much time. He withdrew he revolver and slowly pulled back the hammer. 

“HANGLEY!” The man bawled. “Jeweler in town. He was going to pay me for anything I found. That’s all I know. Please, I just don’t want to die tonight!” 

“You won’t even remember tonight,” Celeste said softly. 

Lightning fast, she drew back her arm and smacked the thief soundly with the blunt side of the stake. He crumpled down into a heap at their feet. Celeste stepped away from the unconscious robber and leaned on a column, taking slow, shuddering breaths.

“Miss Lefay, you need medical attention immediately,” said Holmes, his voice stern.

“No.” Celeste put up her hand in protest. “just need time and air.” She pulled something resembling a rosary from her coat and twisted it around her fingers. “If you’ll excuse me.” She turned her back to him and began to un-tuck her shirt. 

Holmes politely busied himself with putting his new pair of hand cuffs on the thief’s wrists. Celeste whispered in her language what sounded like a combination of prayers and cursing, her head bowed, and eyes screwed shut in concentration. The rosary-like object she held began to glow.

After a while, Celeste addressed the detective. “He doesn’t look like a career grave robber, even if he has done this before,” she said, her voice strained. 

Holmes knelt near the opened grave. “He knew where the stone was weak, and how to crack the hinges, but our culprit is far from the next Burke and Hare. The state of his shoes, the callouses on his hands, looks like a common village loafer willing to take odd jobs of both legal and illegal nature.”

“And with those sleeves he clearly got by on card-sharping and pickpocketing in lean times,” Celeste finished.

“Precisely.”

Silence settled between them after that, but it was not wholly uncomfortable, occasionally broken by night-birds and a soft wind. Holmes continued to inspect the chapel, seeking any clues concerning the less human dangers they’d seen that night, casting the sporadic worried glance in Celeste’s direction. She sat on the floor of the column, breathing deeply in meditation after the glow from her reliquary faded. Celeste’s eyes snapped open at the sound of hooves and rattling wood interrupting the quiet. Curious, Holmes strode to a hole in the chapel wall. 

“It seems to be Constable Clifton in a dog cart,” he said, his voice a fraction more positive. 

“What would he be doing here at this hour?” Celeste mused, her brow furrowing. 

“Most likely taking the last of the drunkards to their respective homes. There are a few small farms nearby, and this path is a shorter deviation to them from town.” Holmes waved down the carriage as it passed by. The sound of hooves came closer. “Ahh, I see he also has surplus blankets for his inebriated charges. They will be helpful when we get you and our friend here into the…”

“I won’t be coming.”

“Beg pardon?” Holmes’ brow furrowed.

“He can’t see me like this.”

_Women_. “My dear Miss Lefay, there is dignity and there is foolishness. Now-“

“NO!” She said as forcefully as possible without yelling. But it was the undertone of pleading that gave the detective pause. “I’m not supposed to be here,” she whispered.

Then Holmes finally understood. As much advantage as Miss Lefay gained from her illusion of a society lady, she was also bound by its limitations. No old school friend of Lady Weatherby’s would be racing across the wilds in the middle of the night after a killer. If Clifton found her here, Celeste’s position as a Fae Liaison Officer would be exposed, and all would be lost in her investigation. 

Holmes let out a resigned sigh as he helped his rival to a standing position. “That does not negate the fact you were seriously injured.”

Celeste huffed in frustration. “Very well then.” She proceeded to yank a silver ring from her middle finger. “Take this. If it starts glowing, I need help. You’ll be able to find me.”

“Mr. Holmes?” Clifton’s voice called from just beyond the entrance.

Celeste looked pointedly looked at Holmes before he took the ring. He then noisily dragged the concussed thief across the chapel as the incognito Officer slipped into the shadows. Clifton dismounted from his trap and picked his way through the bracken to one of the larger-sized cracks in the wall. 

“It’s quite late in the evening Mr. Holmes,” he called eagerly. “What brings you all the way out here? Have you found a clue?” Cutcliffe looked over the wall at the ‘clue’ Holmes was hauling. “Blimey.”

“Ah yes” Holmes said airily. “I found this gentleman relieving some of the deceased of their material possessions. He was somewhat put out when I tried to dissuade him, so I did my best to calm his mood. I assure you I acted in self-defense.”

“I’m certainly glad you did.” Cutcliffe smiled restively. “That’s Gerry Dodders. He’s a lout and a ruffian, and he’s been a thorn in my side ever since I started my post.”

“You have my congratulations then, Constable Clifton.” Holmes said with a wide grin. “All credit for catching Mr. Dodders here goes to you.

Cutcliffe whistled, his eyes wide, “Why thank you Mr. Holmes. That’s mighty charitable of you. I can’t keep him for long out here, but it will certainly be quieter in the village for the time he is locked up.”

“Then while you’re deciding what to do with your newfound free time, could you be a good fellow and help me get Mr. Dodders into your cart?”

“Oh, yes; of course, Mr. Holmes.”

There were little complications for the two men as they loaded Dodders on the cart and journeyed down the road, however a buzzing note of anxiety persisted in Holmes’ mind. It only increased as they rode further from the chapel where he’d left Officer Lefay, wounded and desperate. He clutched her ring in his coat pocket, waiting for any sign of distress. 

No one could survive an injury like that without great cost, and he could not think of any fool who would continue the pursuit after such a serious blow. Well, there was one. There was the time Holmes ran across London with a concussion and a broken arm. But that story ended with a very perturbed Watson back at Baker Street to patch him up, and all Miss Celeste had was her magic and her stubbornness.  
Holmes searched the fields meticulously for a feral blur darting through the mist, giving only cursory answers to Cutcliffe’s idle prattle. They seemed to be the only moving things on the old road, save for the trees gently swaying in the breeze. 

After several dozen more expressions of gratitude, the constable finally dropped Holmes off at the edge of the Weatherby estate before driving back into town. The detective barely had time to creep back into his room before the servants began to stir. There was maybe an hour or two before dawn, and he had three pipes’ worth of contemplation ahead of him before then. 

Once safely inside his room, Holmes took Celeste’s ring from his pocket & placed it on the guest room desk. He lit a candle to supplement the faintest dusty blue haze from the nearby window. He sat in the desk chair, his pipe already lit, his knees drawn up under his chin, watching for the faintest glow from the little silver circle.

It was a small ring, meant for slender fingers. The design combined a mixture of stylized ivy and Celtic knot work, with the insignia of the Fae Liaison Office at the crest. So, clearly not a personal heirloom. The metal was middle-grade, connoting it being standard-issue for Officers. Inside the band was an inscription: January 31, 1881- obviously the date she was commissioned as an Officer. She would have been… quite young at that time. And that was only five years ago, meaning she must have risen through the ranks with remarkable speed. There was a dent in the crown of ivy around the insignia; the pattern reminded him of a human tooth. It had been cleaned recently, but not by its owner. Its cleaner was right-handed.

Suddenly, the window swung open as the candle on the desk sputtered and extinguished, plunging the room into darkness. The sound of a raven’s squawking and beating wings came from somewhere outside in the eaves. Cursing, Holmes rose from his seat to retrieve a match. Once the candle was lit again, he saw the ring was gone.

In its place was a long black feather.


	13. The Hunter Is the Quarry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In order to get information, Holmes and Lefay have to get it from a singular character.

After a thorough inventory, Holmes counted at least seven different muscle groups bruised and sore from last night’s surreal escapade. Pain had not been his only souvenir, however. The feather that mysteriously replaced Miss Lefay’s ring was safely nestled in his breast pocket. Though not a superstitious man, Holmes thought it prudent not to spare precaution when dealing with the unorthodox. And to his simultaneous relief and worry, Unorthodox Herself had made no appearance for the entire morning.

Holmes paced the circumference of the library adjacent to the east salon, resolved to at least confirm whether she still breathed before he went to question the mysterious jeweler named Hangley. It had not been the first time that name had surfaced in this investigation, and last night’s findings made the man his prime suspect. 

At long last he heard the distinct sounds of self-assured footsteps paired with the rustle of expensive skirts. He stepped into the hallway to see her patiently waiting for him. She may have been a trifle paler than usual, her violet eyes a little faded, but that seemed to be the only evidence of her injury. She didn’t seem daunted by last night’s setbacks. Her expression was self-confident, even gloating.   
That crooked smile of hers only accented the excessive amount of rouge discoloring her face. Her hair was also tightly curled and impractically piled on top of her head, which felt incongruous for her character, and her dress fit far too snugly for her social station. What was she planning?

Celeste wryly grinned when she noticed Holmes’ raised eyebrows. “The way I work is my business and mine alone, Derryn,” she taunted slightly. 

Miss Lefay turned to leave, flourishing her right hand in farewell. Holmes’ eyes narrowed as he noticed the glimmer of a familiar ring on her middle finger. It cast a dancing spotlight on her wrist, which was slightly marred by a gauzy bandage blotted with red. 

Before she disappeared down the hall, Holmes spoke up. “It was the iron, wasn’t it?” He asked. Her back stiffened, and she turned to face him slowly.

“Alas, we are not invincible, Mr. Holmes.”

She turned on her heel and did not look back until she was safely nestled on the seat of Duncan Grange’s cart, the sight of Mr. Sherlock Holmes looking for alternative transportation to town shrinking onto the distance. 

Fortunately for Holmes however, when the act of breathing earns the adoration of the local constabulary, getting to and from town can be a relatively simple affair. After getting some discreet directions and some very indiscreet well-wishes from Andrew Clifton, Holmes made his way to the local jewelry shop.

He looked into the window to see Miss Lefay was already at the counter and talking to Hangley. He seemed a genial-enough looking young man, with tousled black hair and a languid smile. He stood at least six inches over the Officer as he showed her a tray of opulent dinner rings. 

Miss Lefay was doing such an expert job of attracting Mr. Hangley’s full attention that Holmes slipped into the shop and behind a casing completely unnoticed. Upon closer inspection, a few more unsettling qualities about the jeweler revealed themselves. His well-groomed hands constantly grasped at hers, pulling them closer and possessively holding just a hair too long. Every other sentence was a flattering comment that flew by so rapidly, it didn’t have time to be sincere. The man acted like he knew women, and far too well. 

Celeste giggled demurely at one of Hangley’s compliments. The man eyed her like a tomcat would a plump mouse. Holmes was worried for Miss Lefay, but then he remembered her face wreathed in lightning. The fearless Officer who nearly broke his nose and launched herself at a grave robber last night was only hidden inside that coy ingenue batting her eyes. The Lothario wasn’t trapping a mouse but testing a leopard. 

“If it’s opals you fancy, I have a fine collection of exquisite estate jewelry in my office,” said Hangley with a cavalier grin.

Miss Lefay flushed and bit her lip. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to cause too much trouble?”

“Certainly not. It would be half payment just to see your eyes light up.”

It took a good deal of effort for Holmes not to snort derisively. Celeste’s shoulder twitched slightly. She seemed to be having the same problem, but she recovered quickly by girlishly putting her hands to her mouth and actually squealing, “Oh Mr. Hangley!”

Without warning, Hangley took Celeste’s arm and drew her close. “I only speak the truth,” he said in a honeyed voice. “And do call me Thornton.”

Miss Lefay smiled bashfully as he led her to the back stairs. “Well, if you insist, Thornton.”

It could have been a hand spasm. There might have been an insect on her wrist. She could have been making a rude gesture, but the point remained that Celeste had wiggled her hand behind her back, and Holmes got the distinct feeling that anyone outside this building would be oblivious to the actions inside. 

Not one to waste an opportunity, Holmes crept up the stairs after Celeste Lefay and Thornton Hangley. The mirror on the stairway landing afforded an excellent view of Hangley’s office, and he did not close the door. He wouldn’t immediately close it, of course. Cads were a theatrical lot, and he would only do that as the final act of dominance to show the mouse she had been caught. 

Hangley showed Celeste to a chair and turned to a casing behind his desk. She deviously smiled her crooked grin at his back. The true Celeste was shining through. Her trap was nearly sprung, and she was ready to pounce. In a flash the smile turned from diabolical to vapid and flirtatious when Hangley turned around.

He leaned casually against the desk in front of her. “Now my dear, who has left you so lonely you must turn to these old jewels?”

“Do you think it would be the same as Mrs. Agnes Dover?” Celeste asked lightly. Her eyes turned predatory as she slowly turned her head to stare him down. The jeweler stiffened. “Or perhaps it was Mrs. Emmeline Marsh.” She rose and loomed over an uncomfortable Hangley. “Or maybe Coraline Beldam? Leonora Valentine?”

Celeste had almost backed Hangley onto his desk at this point. His shoulders tensed as he tried to take back control of the situation. There grew a wild look in his eyes. “Now, my sweet girl, I don’t know what you mean. Which of the old town gossips told you such foolish things?”

“Get the right tongues wagging and all truths come to light,” Celeste purred. Hangley attempted to snake his arms around Celeste’s waist in what might have been a ravishing dip, the cad’s coup de gras, but she swiftly planted a hand on his sternum and pushed. The desk squeaked from the force. 

“Dear little lady, if you have a penchant for confrontation, I am perfectly willing to play along…” Hangley caressed up her forearm, but this time Miss Lefay rebuffed with a knife, pointed much further south than his chest.

“I assure you sir, if any appendage approaches me again, it will be cut off without hesitation. “Hangley gulped, his eyes wide. “Ah, glad to see you’re listening. I’ve heard much about your habits with women. My sources tell me you like them Fae and, in most cases, married. But you have not limited yourself to these specifications, oh no. For the entire month leading up to her death, you have been seen almost exclusively with Lilith Montclair, unwed sister of Lady Weatherby. I’m sure you’ve been acquainted; you’ve cursed her mourning jewelry.”

“You don’t know anything about it,” Hangley grumbled petulantly.

Celeste’s hand latched closer to his throat, her thumb resting casually on his wind pipe. “And I’m hoping you’ll care to enlighten me. Now, when exactly did you decide to expand from lechery and larceny to murder? 

Hangley’s expression seemed to curdle. “Wa-What? MURDER! There’s no way in Hell you’re going to pin a murder on me. I did nothing to the girl!”

“Oh, you’re calling it nothing now,” Celeste purred sweetly. “I wonder the other women would call it nothing when you left them bewildered and in tears. I wonder if their husbands would consider it nothing. Shall I trot off and find them to see?” 

“NO!” The cad yelped as if he had been burned. “I mean, I don’t do long exclusive engagements. Little songbird should’ve known that, but she started getting notions. Why do women always get notions?”

Celeste was unsympathetic. “Indeed. Why do men always get notions they can change the subject. Where were you the night before Miss Montclair fell sick?”

“I was here, plying my trade.”

“Then surely there is a ledger if you made a sale. If you would do me the honor of showing me your books.”

With a beleaguered sigh, Hangley opened a drawer and selected a book from the top. In turning to the proper entry, a small journal fell from the pages, landing open-faced. The few words visible caused the jeweler to blanch and his interrogator’s eyes to lit up.

“Is that a lust diary we have there? How quaint. Now, you can save yourself considerable time and embarrassment by giving it to me.”

Hangley hastily pulled the journal to his breast. “Never.”

“I take it you’re again warming to my company. Perhaps now we can discuss how you really obtain all this ‘exquisite estate jewelry’. Gerry Dodders certainly had interesting things to say regarding your joint business venture. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind filling in all the little details.”

“Fine,” snarled Hangley, all pride drained from him. “If you need to get the dust out of your knickers that badly.” He tossed the notebook on the desk disdainfully. 

With one knife pointed to Hangley’s neck, Celeste took the book and curled it into the crook of her arm. 

“It has been an absolute pleasure conversing with you, sir.” she grinned like a Cheshire cat as she withdrew her weapon and walked away. “Do stay in town. I dare say I’m not particularly finished with you.”

She was at the door when the jeweler seemed to regain an imitation of confidence. “Is it true? How witches like you don’t have hearts. That there’s nothing but ice in your tits?”

Celeste stopped cold without turning around. Her face a violet-eyed thunderstorm reflected in Holmes’ mirror. Without a word, she whirled around and carved a wide arc in the air with her knife. A violet shock wave pulsed from the gesture and hit Hangley square in the chest. He was catapulted backward over his desk, landing in a groaning heap on the floor.

With that, the Leopard seemed satisfied, and Sherlock Holmes had seen quite enough. He hurried down the stairs ahead of her and stealthily crept between jewelry casings to the door. Remembering to muffle the bell on his way out, Holmes slipped around the corner and watched for the Officer’s exit.

He saw her wrap the incriminating journal in her shawl in the doorway to the shop. Mis Lefay had barely turned the corner when Holmes bumped into her on the street. He kept his face turned away and his apology a low mumble. In the momentary confusion, he managed to grasp a firm handful of the book wrapped in silk from Miss Lefay’s bag and stride swiftly away.

By the time he passed through the village square, Holmes noticed the laughter, her laughter. In a rapid flash of enlightenment, he inspected more thoroughly his new prize. He unrolled the green stole to find no book hidden anywhere within its folds. Holmes could have sworn he had that blasted thing firmly in his hands. 

Looking back, he saw Celeste Lefay flourish her empty palms toward him like a melodramatic magician. Still laughing, she grinned devilishly at him before turning down a side street with a swish of her skirts, leaving Sherlock Holmes to throw down the offending shawl with a frustrated huff.

Despite all sundry complications, Celeste still considered the day to be a success. By mid-afternoon she had retreated to the rose garden to read the cad’s ledger in solitude. Indulging in a playful pat on the gargoyle’s head, she sat leaning on the statue while pilfering through the journal for the desired names and dates. 

When she found what she was looking for, it took three seconds until Celeste screamed in rage.


	14. The Skeletons Out of the Closet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celeste has a needed conversation with an alleged ally, and the potential to gain another. But at what cost?

Any extraneous people in the East Salon cleared the room in five seconds from the intensity of Celeste’s enraged expression as she entered. Lila Weatherby, the focus of her wrath, sat transfixed on settee, thin lipped and wide eyed. 

Celeste heaved a dangerously quiet sigh as she shut the curtain. “I seem to remember explicitly stating that you be honest with me.” She said. 

“I don’t understand,” Lila stammered. Celeste threw Hangley’s notebook on the tea table, rattling the porcelain. 

“Page eight and ninety should refresh you.” 

Lila’s expression grew increasingly more panicked as she continued to read. She looked up. “It was a mistake…”

“You are damn right it was a mistake! Everything changes now. I’m going to have to start over completely. I can’t even be sure I wasn’t right originally, and you murdered your sister over some human bellend. He could be the culprit, or it could be any of those poor women he cheated. After this,” Celeste snatched the journal from Lila’s hands and threw it on the ground. “How on earth am I supposed to trust you?”

After a few frightened breaths, Lila looked up. “What must I do?” She asked, _sotto_ voice.

“You can start by telling me everything that happened between you and Thornton Hangley.”

Lady Weatherby looked about to break. Celeste sighed and put her hand on her friend’s shoulder, firm yet warm, encouraging her to begin. “Lord Weatherby is quite engrossed with politics, so he’s often away in London while I am left here to watch over the estate.”

“And you got lonely,” said Celeste flatly, without spite.

“Not at first. It wasn’t until Mr. Hangley and I started corresponding during the restoration of some Weatherby heirlooms that I noticed how often David is gone.”

“Hangley is quite persuasive.”

“Oh, so you’ve spoken to him? Then you’ve seen how he works. Not everyone is an iron maiden like you, Celeste. He paid attention to me, made me feel valued in a way I didn’t know how to ask of my husband. So, we began to visit each other. It was all maudlin letters, and looks, and flirtations. I knew it was wrong, and I hated facing David when he did come home.”

“You must tell me,” said Celeste, kneeling to look in Lady Weatherby’s eyes. “How far did you take the affair?”

“No further than one kiss, and then I came to my senses.” A tear on her cheek refracted the afternoon sun. “Hangley was so angry when I ended it. I was afraid he was going to tell my husband, but what he did was so much worse.”

“How early on was Lilith involved with this business?”

Lady Weatherby looked briefly startled at Celeste's bluntness but recovered quickly. “After the first few days. Lilith would take messages back and forth between us. And when we saw each other in person, she would keep watch to make sure it was safe. After I stopped seeing him, I gave her my last letter to forward to him. I was such a coward for making her go. When they spoke, he made her think…” She stopped.

“That you were the one in the wrong, and he a poor fool in need of redemption. Correct?”

“Yes. He pursued her to spite me. I tried to warn her, but Lilith would hear none of it. We had an awful row, and she stopped speaking to me for weeks. She continued to avoid me until after she fell sick.”

“And what did she say to you then?”

“That she loved me,” said Lila, like it was foolish to think of anything else. “And that she was sorry, and wished we hadn’t wasted so much time over petty arguments.”

Celeste squeezed her friend’s hand and gave her a hollow-looking smile. It took a moment for her to speak. “Pardon me,” she whispered. “Did you ever see Mr. Hangley after Lilith’s death, and if so, what was his disposition?”

“It was like he didn’t know me at all. He treated me like some bloody acquaintance with a death in the family. He didn’t even seem to be grieving for his own sake. It was infuriating.”

“To offer any more sympathy would be to admit further involvement in your family. Clearly, Hangley cared more about his reputation than her death. Were there any empathetic impressions you could feel   
from him? Gloating? Disdain? Even threatening?”

“If I felt anything from him, he was morose and sulky.”

“Interesting,” Celeste stood. “I agree with you that Mr. Hangley does not hold any murderous intentions toward you and did not for your sister either. Though my conclusions are held for very different reasons. That man has not an ounce of caring in him, remember that. Lord Weatherby is a far better choice no matter how often he is away, and I have half a mind to tell your husband just how lucky he is that your mistakes did not erupt into full-blown scandal.” Lady Weatherby flew from her seat in protest, but the Officer stood still. “However, that is your story to tell, your marriage to maintain, and your decision whether to confess or not. My opinion on this matter should be obvious. Your husband may be human, but you made a Vow.” Lady Weatherby sighed and hung her head.

“I know you are still in a great deal of pain, Lila. And I know this whole ordeal has done nothing but exacerbate it, but you must admit keeping this information from me has doubled your grief. It would’ve been better had you told me everything from the start. Now we’re picking up the pieces.”

Suitably chastened, Lila gripped her friend’s hands. “It was such a foolish decision. I wanted to bury it with Lilith and act like it never happened. I don’t know how I could bear the thought that my errors drove her to her demise.”

“We still don’t know all the facts of the case,” reassured Celeste. “There could be other circumstances, Darker Forces at play, so do not blame yourself yet. However,” her voice dropped to a whisper. “You should count yourself lucky, woman. You’re lucky to be dealing with an Officer who knows you, lucky I didn’t jump to conclusions, and exceptionally lucky that Sherlock Holmes did not uncover your secrets before I did.”

A twig snapped abruptly outside, and Celeste turned to see the window wide open and a blur retreating away from it. Lila went pale as a sheet, and Celeste snarled. Her face was grim as she turned to Lady Weatherby. “Stay here. Admit to nothing.”

Celeste sprinted into the garden, cursing under her breath. The latest set of footprints led her back to the gargoyle among the roses, as well as the figure of the man now leaning on it. 

“Quite an interesting development, wouldn’t you say Miss Lefay?” said Mr. Holmes with a smug grin.

“Precisely how much did you hear, Derryn? You know just as well as I that having part of a story is often more dangerous than no story at all. It would be in your best interests just to forget.” She reflexively gripped the hilt of her knife to emphasize the point.

Holmes regarded the weapon with a bemused grin. “Calm yourself, woman. I have no intention of exposing Lady Weatherby. On the contrary, it seems you have this area of the case well-handled. I find your advice to the lady admirable and agree that the murderer can be found without aggravating this wound any further.” 

“What do you want?” asked Celeste suspiciously, after the initial surprise wore off.

“It has come to my attention that if we want our investigations to end successfully, we will need information from the other. I propose we pool together our knowledge.”

“An alliance?” came her skeptical reply. “But what information would I ever need from you?”

He stepped towards her. “The coroner’s report, the bailiff’s criminal files, and everything a man refuses to say in the presence of a woman.”

It was annoying how right he was. Celeste could be an effective interrogator, but she could never breach the wall of decorum between men and women, not here. Too often, human men sought to shield their Madonnas and begrudge their Whores, so they lie to both. She sighed and looked up at the detective, reluctantly agreeing with her eyes. Holmes’ grin broadened.

“Have you already considered a place and time for this meeting of the minds?” She asked.

Holmes kept his gaze focused on a nearby yard boy clipping hedges but angled himself conspiratorially close to her. “The library at midnight. I trust you do not need a chaperone, and I shall do my part keeping anyone else away.”

Holmes started to walk away but stopped to whisper in her ear. “And don’t forget the journal.” Then he left.

Celeste rolled her eyes and looked over to the grotesque gargoyle staring at her. It did nothing to lessen the feeling that she’d just made a deal with the devil.


	15. The Midnight Oil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a study session of epic proportions.

Dinner mercifully passed by without incident that night. Without any grand displays of magic that day, Celeste could evade the center of attention and let her satellites do the socializing. The Staunton twins were relieved of duty having discovered the excellent morsels of information regarding Mr. Hangley, and so they returned to less relevant gossip. Mrs. Ponce proved to be no help at all obtaining data, but instead displayed welcome proficiency keeping Lady Weatherby calm and preoccupied. She had helped ease Lila’s nerves that afternoon when Celeste returned to the salon to find her near swooning. Together, she and Gwynethe brought the lady back to her normal emotional strength, as well as providing several scripts for when she built the courage to give Lord Weatherby that heart-to-heart. Tonight, Mrs. Ponce took the reins of the dinner conversation by suggesting a celebration of a lesser Fae holiday with a party. Celeste sincerely hoped she could avoid that particular social drudgery by solving the case before she was roped into the festivities.

Ms. Bouvril had also proven quite helpful, as she’d managed to procure genealogies, town histories, and land records from the village archives. Adelle deposited the stack of ragged ledgers in Celeste’s room just before dinner. She resolved to make use of her time before meeting Mr. Holmes by reading them. 

Very unladylike words floated through Celeste’s mind as she thought about her eminent meeting with the detective. As observant and helpful as Mr. Holmes proved to be with Gerry Dodders, Celeste loathed being bullied into any situation as a rule, and by a human rival even less so. However, she would have to at least attempt at offering helpful information if she expected the same in return.

Determined to outdo the human in amount of information gained, Celeste dove into the borrowed books as soon as dinner concluded. Stretched languidly on the floor with the records scattered around her, Celeste poured over the various ledgers and genealogies until the lamp sputtered into futility.

The hall clock rang half past eleven, drawing Celeste from her academic trance. She picked up the journal but stared petulantly at the other books. The detective had asked for the journal and nothing more. She would be well within the agreement, not to mention the nature of a Fae, to adhere to the letter of the law if not the spirit and forget the other information.

But -Annoying word, that- Mr. Holmes had not said anything to Lord Weatherby regarding what he overheard. Celeste observed them both carefully during dinner. Weatherby was oblivious. He may have been concerned regarding the quiet behavior of his wife, but he had no idea as to the reasons behind it. The human had… kept his word and acted honorably. Maybe Celeste didn’t need to behave so capriciously just yet. 

After scooping the ledgers into her arms, Celeste crept silently down through the manor to the library. She slid into the moonlit room and bolted the door behind her. Sherlock Holmes sat on the other side, a match in his hand and a clay pipe in his teeth. With a strike the match ignited, its flame sparking a controlled yet zealous brilliance in the darkness before smoldering in the bowl of the pipe.

“I take it Ms. Bouvril made herself of use to you?” He said without looking up.

“And I take it the Constable did not.”

Holmes shrugged off his noticed lack of official papers or files. “Apparently, this is the first crime of its kind in Mr. Clifton’s records.”

“Not entirely surprising.”

“I did, however, speak to your Mr. Hangley at his favorite public house not long after you were through with him. Ale is just as good at loosening tongues than steel it seems.” He grinned slightly.

Celeste rolled her eyes. “What did he tell you?”

“That he was delayed by a customer the night of Miss Montclair’s attack. The customer being female in nature, he was delayed for some time, so Hangley sent a friend to meet the poor girl with an excuse for his tardiness.”

“The name Crowbeck wasn’t mentioned by chance, was it?”

The detective’s brow arched. “How often was it in the journal?”

With a sigh, she sat down across the table from Holmes, opening the journal between them. “Hangley consults Crowbeck every time he prepares to pursue a woman. Five times Crowbeck has recommended women to chase. All of them Fae; four of them married. The fifth was Lilith Montclair.”

Holmes scanned the pages she had indicated. “Every time a destructive decision is made, this Crowbeck character endorses it.”

“He nearly enforces it, and always seems to pick a time and situation that would cause the most heartbreak. Hangley doesn’t have the wherewithal to notice, but from the writing, it is clear Crowbeck is manipulating him.” Celeste leaned back, her eyes far away. “Hangley is a mere tool. Crowbeck wants these Fae women to suffer, be humiliated.”

“Yet he feels he must humiliate them through a petty philanderer rather than cause pain himself,” said the detective, steepling his long fingers. “He is either in a position that depends on communal trust, or he has a severe dislike for Fae women. Quite possibly both.”

“How did you deduce the latter?” Celeste raised an eyebrow.

“Hangley has managed to avoid detection from the male population of Brambleston, only present as a warning through the whisper network of its women that your talented young spies managed to infiltrate. And since none of the women mentioned in the journal have been cast out from their families, it might be that disgrace was not Crowbeck’s goal but silence. These women might have been vocal and influential in the community before Hangley got to them, and now guilt, fear, and possibly blackmail have pushed them out of power. This probably serves Crowbeck’s bigoted needs. And if you could clarify one small point for me: your reaction to Hangley calling you a witch was particularly… severe. May I conclude that the term is a high insult in your culture?”

“The lowest name one can call a Fae woman.”

“Just as I thought. Ignorant men tend to gravitate to one another, so Hangley and Crowbeck have likely bonded, using the other to justify themselves. Hangley’s prejudices manifest in his disdain for Fae women and his willingness to use them. Crowbeck may be less outwardly demonstrative in his biases, but judging by this account, they are possibly more severe. Had I a decent description of him, his routine would be easy to shadow, but none of the other patrons of that pub knew the name.” Holmes took a dejected draw on his pipe.

“Crowbeck was likely a childhood nickname, from the way Hangley uses it in the journal. He probably refrains from calling his old friend such around other grown men. And while these won’t likely tell us where he is,” Celeste said with a twisted smile, setting the genealogies on the table emphatically. “they can tell us from whence he came. And Hangley as well.”

The detective leaned forward inquisitively at the table as Celeste turned to a yellowed page. “The Weatherbys were not the original landed gentry of Brambleston. The Hangley family had control of this land from the twelfth Century until Cromwell. They gained a reputation as ruthless lords and were particularly violent to Fae, but lost their title and wealth putting their fate in with the Cavaliers. After the Restoration, your king gave the unoccupied land to a Sir Richard Weatherby, who had aided him. What’s left of the Hangleys now live in middle-class obscurity north of here, save one philandering jeweler.”

“Fascinating history, but what is the association with Crowbeck and the case?”

“Patience Derryn.” She smirked while opening another book. “It just so happens the Hangley’s had one family who traditionally filled the role of major domos, managing their estate and honor for nearly as long as their reign. I’m sure you can determine the surname of that family.” She pointed at one of the historical entries.

Holmes laughed and clapped appreciatively. “ _Brava, Maestra_. The Crowbecks have likely carried on with their loyalties despite the loss of their masters’ status. It’s very likely they’ve enabling and protecting the Hangley family throughout the years.”

“As well as perpetuating their prejudices.”

“This Crowbeck and Thornton Hangley very likely grew up together and both settled in Brambleston once they came into their careers, one sinking into hedonism while the other had more diabolical plans. Likely Crowbeck’s workings behind Mr. Hangley is merely a rehearsal for larger schemes.”

“Lilith’s murder could be considered escalation.”

“As well as defending his liege’s honor. Miss Montclair came closest to wedding Hangley. And even if he meant it as petty revenge against Lady Weatherby, Crowbeck would see it as an abomination.”

“Now how would that explain the current threats against Lady Weatherby?”

“Lord Weatherby recently told me of a tract of land bordering his estate he was preparing to buy. Land from one Thornton Hangley. Should Lady Weatherby produce an heir, a Fae will someday own Hangley land, equally abhorrent in Crowbeck’s eyes.”

Celeste sat slowly back in her chair, looking enigmatically pleased at the man across from her. “By the Fyn, Derryn, you’re not half bad at this game. You’ve done well with determining motive for murder, now let’s talk mechanics.”

Holmes retrieved a notebook from his breast pocket. “I spoke with the doctor who acted as coroner for Lilith Montclair. He had a gleeful interest in the macabre and a thoroughly clinical young apprentice. They were not shy in sharing notes. According to his analysis, there were no signs of any common poisons in her system.”

Celeste smirked, inclining her head mockingly to receive Holmes’ apology for their earlier tiff on the subject.

He looked up at her with a matching smirk. “Nor were there any hex marks or curse burns found.”

That wiped the smile right off her face. The Fae leopard simultaneously swore a blue streak and flapped her hands in the air like a surprised chicken. Holmes laughed and basked in his reward for a moment.

“Quit looking at me that way, Derryn. We’re both wrong.” Her snarl meant business.

He cleared his throat contritely. “The cause of death was noted to be acute anemia which preceded heart failure. She simply wasted away in the course of a week. The only marks on Lillyth’s body were three small scratches at the base of her neck.” He showed her a sketch the orderly gave him. “There was an ashy residue around the scratch, but the doctor cleaned it off and, of course, thought nothing of it.”

Something ignited in Celeste’s eyes as she studied the drawing. “I need a grimoire.”

“I beg your pardon?” Asked Holmes while watching Celeste frantically search a bookshelf.

“Rowlwrede’s Grimoire. All Fae this side of the Veil are supposed to have one. It was one of our textbooks in school. It documents everything in the human realm able to poison, incapacitate, maim, or kill us. I’ve seen those marks in that book.”

Holmes rose from his seat to help Miss Lefay in her hunt, but before long she impatiently strode to the center of the library. She spoke a harsh phrase and pointed. Books flew from the shelves of their own accord. Instinctively, Holmes ducked from the large tomes that circled the library above him. Celeste snatched a particularly ancient one from the air before the remainder of the strange flock returned to their warren.

She opened the book on the table with a firm thud. “Here we are.”

Stepping next to her for a better look, Holmes saw an illustration of what seemed to be the thing that terrorized them in the storm. It looked like the floating torso of a skeleton covered in rags, but it had the same haunting dead eyes. What looked like a lock hung from its sternum, and an eerie glow emanated from its ribcage.

“A Gaunt,” read Celeste, “is physically the body of a wicked human long dead. It is animated by collecting all the residual negative energy from a forsaken place into the body. It is given sentience through an incantation and five hundred tears of broken-hearted women.” She paused.

“A rib is taken from the skeleton and a lock put in its place during the ritual, insuring the Gaunt is bound to its master’s will. It feeds on the life force of both Fae and humans as commanded. Immediate medical attention is required for anyone who has been the victim of a Gaunt. The victim of a feeding will die from severe weakening of the blood. If someone is simply injured by the Gaunt without being the victim of a feeding, that person will gradually become a Gaunt as well.”

“Double bubble toil and trouble,” muttered Holmes under his breath.

Celeste jabbed her elbow into his torso emphatically.

“It’s an older edition.”

“Does the book provide the proverbial silver bullet for vanquishing this beast?” Asked Holmes.

“A weapon that can be made with ash from the Gaunt’s burial ground will injure it. The weapon will kill it if it hits the heart. Also, if the Gaunt’s burial ground is found and cleansed, the Gaunt will gradually weaken, clinging to its master until it destroys them both.”

“If we can find that tomb and cleanse it, as your book says, we can track the monster to our culprit.”

“We? You don’t seem the type to work with a partner.” She arched an eyebrow.

“I have a flatmate and friend who often accompanies me on cases. He is -erm- incapacitated and could not join me this time. And you’re quite adept arguing theories and deductions, yourself. Where’s your comrade?”

“We were temporarily reassigned to less active duties,” said Celeste, rolling her eyes. She made a grab for pencil and paper. “But he’s in Oxford teaching children how to make a basic shield-ward, so I think I got the better end of the bargain.” Flashing a twisted smile, she dashed out the door into the night.

“You know it’s cold out here, woman,” grumbled Holmes as he trailed her to the patio.

“Then go get a jacket and don’t bother me while I’m working.”

Celeste flung a hand into the air and a faint violet arc shot into the clouds and seemed to map them. Her eyes flicked constantly between the overcast night sky & the paper where she was scribbling. Her brow was firmly set in concentration and her tongue jutted out the side of her mouth. Holmes might remark she looked adorable if he didn’t care for his safety.

“Remember that the clouds are depicting a mirror reflection when you draw the map. I’d hate to go searching for our target in the opposite direction,” he offered after observing her for a moment or two.

A sharp pair of eyes met his. “Lucky guess,” she mumbled.

“I never guess. Clouds are condensed water vapor, and water is reflective. While I don’t have such keen eyesight or magic to harness it as you, I can understand the concept.”

Celeste just rolled her eyes. “Showoff,” she said before turning to go inside. “And there will be no ‘our’ tomorrow.”

“Why ever not?” Holmes asked, closing the door to the library behind them. “We agreed to share information.”

“Experiences are not information, Derryn.” She straightened a few rogue books. “I recall eldritch creatures being more my forte than yours. There’s no chance of less magical enemies, therefore you are not needed. I have no problem recounting the events to you, but I won’t be babysitting you as I did last night.”

Whatever the detective was going to say died on his tongue, and he stood open-mouthed while she regarded him pointedly. “Very well,” he finally said, a tad perturbed.

The grandfather clock chimed the hour as the first traces of dawn crawled across the sky. “I assume you have a believable excuse for not accompanying the other ladies today.” Holmes tucked his notebook in his breast pocket as Celeste carefully gathered each of the genealogies.

“Last night’s dinner did not agree with me,” she said with a shrug. “How are you going to explain burrowing in the library all night?”

“Few question the whims of an eccentric busybody.” He opened the door for her. “Mind the servants. They start bustling around at this hour, and they gossip like hens.”

“You worry too much, Derryn. I have my ways of keeping out of sight.” And with that, she disappeared into the hallway.

Holmes quietly laughed to himself, thinking to the day ahead. “So do I, Leopard. So do I.”


	16. The Barren Orchard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Best laid plans...

“Are you quite sure you’re not up to dress shopping today?” Asked Mrs. Ponce. She stood in the doorway of the East Salon with the other women while Celeste played the invalid on the chaise. 

“I fear I would make poor company today. Stomach spasms have plagued me since early this morning.” She squirmed slightly, clutching her stomach while politely hiding a grimace. The Staunton twins backed away two steps. Mrs. Ponce looked sympathetic.

“Very well, Dearie. You get your rest now.” The women turned to leave, but Lila stayed back.

“Consider my home open to you. I’ve let the servants know you are not to be disturbed,” the Lady said with a slight wink. Celeste winked in return before Lila left her alone in the salon.

“Finally.” Celeste sighed heavily. She quickly shed her dressing gown before retrieving riding boots, gloves, and a satchel from under the chaise. Suspenders were stretched over her shoulders, and breeches were tucked into the boots. After a cautious look to make sure the garden was free of witnesses, she vaulted out the window into the flower bed below. Celeste was happy to see no sign of Mr. Holmes whatsoever. She didn’t expect him to take her admonishment seriously, but the faster she moved, the less he could catch up.

Following a sprint across the lawn, she slipped through the handily unlocked back door to the stable. Lila was not the only one to wake up to a note under her door. Duncan Grange had fed the sprightly stallion Celeste befriended a couple days earlier & left riding tack near his stall.

“Ready for an adventure, young Macheath?” Purred Celeste while affectionately stroking his muzzle. He whinnied enthusiastically in reply. Smiling, the Fae swiftly saddled and prepared the horse before leading him out to the forest. Both horse and rider eased as they hurtled full speed through the winding trails. Through forgotten lands they rode, using the rough map Celeste made the night previous as a guide. The forest fauna seemed livelier than the last time, she noticed during the ride. And the flora a trifle greener too. The Gaunt had not been loosed the previous night, and so the demands of Spring could be more comfortably be enforced. However, all that progress seemed to halt once they reached their destination. 

Celeste slowed her mount upon reaching the long-neglected orchard and took in the eerie sight. All birdsong and forest chatter had stilled within the valley, leaving it bathed in silence and refracted light. The orchard trees long since rebelled from their manicured lines, growing intertwined and atop one another with vicious, competitive zeal. Few of the surrounding flora had obtained their spring budding, making the orchard appear dead in relation to the surrounding wood.

Dismounting, Celeste reached into her satchel to check her map once again. They were close. She gave the air an experimental sniff. Rain was on its way. Not just rain but a decent sized storm, judging by the electric prickling at the nape of her neck. Macheath pranced nervously, aware of the tension. She sniffed again, this time noticing the acrid note of ash and decay. She followed the odor to a charred swatch lining the shadow of the valley until it disappeared into the underbrush. The Gaunt had left a trail from the last time he’d been released, but it was hard to tell how fresh.

Celeste silently drew her knife as she approached the shadows, careful not to make a sound. The trace of a more bothersome smell lingered in the air. She held her breath and mentally steeled herself before swatting away an overhanging branch with a sudden _twack_.

Sherlock Holmes jumped five feet in the air, and she did not feel guilty at all for laughing at him. “Out for a morning constitutional, are we, Derryn?”

After dusting off his clothes and clearing his throat, Holmes managed to look down at her with something resembling dignity. “I was not following you.”

“Really?” She looked at him incredulously.

“It is not following if I get here first.”

Celeste recovered from her surprise admirably. “How did you happen to…?” She asked, her voice a mite squeakier than normal.

“You are most emphatic when taking notes.” He smirked. “It leaves quite an impression.” Sure enough, Holmes showed her a familiar pad of paper where he traced the indentations of her map from the previous page. She rolled her eyes.

“Very well. Did you happen to find anything new while you were not following me?”

He knelt beside the Gaunt’s grisly trail “The creature does not burn the foliage in its wake, but drains all moisture and increases cellular deterioration. The end result is similar to ash. Judging by the amount of moisture in the soil and rate of decay, these marks were made shortly before dawn yesterday morning. I’m uncertain whether it is only active at night or if it can travel during this…”

Thunder cracked angrily overhead.

“Storm.”

It had grown eerily dark during such a short time, and the wind was beginning to tug at coattails and hair. Celeste’s horse pranced nervously, pulling at his tether.

“You really should consider finding a less skittish mount,” Holmes said sympathetically.

With a crack, Macheath broke the branch holding him back just as a sickening, familiar screech rent the air.

“Don’t blame the horse.” Her voice wavered slightly as she watched her ride gallop away to safety.

A menacing shadow advanced in from their periphery, prompting both detective and officer to dive in separate directions. The valley making a flat run impractical, they chose to weave through the trees and vines, the Gaunt hot on their heels. Celeste rounded a tree and leapt over a low wall only to lose her footing among the vines hidden on the other side. Swearing at her negligence, she attempted to rise only for Sherlock Holmes to push her down and out of range of the Gaunt diving for her.

He leapt between her and the monster, waving his coat as a matador would blind a bull. For a moment, the Gaunt was confused but regained quickly, grasping the flailing coat in its bony talons. Then Celeste could only watch in horror as the beast pulled Sherlock Holmes forward and sunk its teeth into his arm.


	17. The City of the Dead

Holmes felt Hellfire pouring into his veins the moment the Gaunt’s teeth broke his skin. Steeling his resolve, He drew the concealed sword from his cane one-handed and made a slash at its neck. The monster drew back & howled, throwing the detective to the ground. Lightning flashed disturbingly close by, immediately followed by a deafening clap of thunder.

A corona of light engulfed the orchard as several trees ignited from the lightning. A vortex of flame spiraled down from the burning trees of its own accord and reached for the monster hovering above them. It recoiled from the fire and flew into the shadows of the far woods.

Holmes was pulled from the fog of pain radiating from his arm by hands violently tugging him by the shoulders. He craned his neck to see Celeste dragging him towards a ruined archway, her knife secured in her teeth. Rallying any remaining strength, he scrambled upright and stumbled alongside the Officer to the covering just before a steady rain began to fall. Once sheltered from the weather, she started slashing at his shirtsleeve with her knife.

“Hold still and let me save your life,” she snarled when Holmes began to protest.

As gently as urgency would allow, Celeste shoved Holmes to the ground to better inspect his arm. Disconcerting black tendrils crawled under his skin, fractals spiraling out from the Gaunt’s bite marks. Swearing, Celeste pulled a flask from her bag and poured its contents over the wound. The liquid bubbled and steamed as it touched his flesh. Sickening pain shot through him, and Celeste was nearly sitting on her patient to keep him still.

“Oh no, you don’t,” growled Celeste as she noticed his face go ashen and his eyelids begin to droop. “Stay awake. Talk to me, Derryn. Say something clever. Tell me about the sword.”  
Holmes smiled slightly. “Knew steel would have no effect. Obtained holy water from the cook, devout Catholic. Coated the blade in it before leaving” He winced. “The lightning was your doing, I take it?”  
“The lightning was the Lord’s doing,” said Celeste calmly while fishing a field tourniquet from her pack. “I just told the fire where to go.”

Before she could haphazardly tie the tourniquet around his upper arm, Holmes grabbed her wrist with surprising strength. After receiving a stony glare from the detective, Celeste allowed Holmes to tie the tourniquet himself, doing so with frightening efficiency. She did not outwardly react but grabbed his uninjured hand and tied it to a nearby branch.

“You’re going to want to hit me,” she replied to his shocked expression.

With the smallest of her knives, Celeste cut a series of careful incisions through the skin to the poison beneath. Something not unlike crude oil bubbled up from the veins and dribbled to the ground. Holmes tensed with each wave of pain. His jaw set, nostrils flared, and knuckles whitened. He felt more of the fire-water poured on him from the flask, the pain sharper and hotter. The shock of the agony shattered his control, sending him into a convulsion.

Celeste swore and pulled a strange coin from the pseudo-rosary at her waist. She pressed it close to Holmes’ bleeding arm with more remorse in her eyes than he’d ever seen her acknowledge. “Try to hold on, whatever happens,” she said before bowing her head and whispering in her own language.

Holmes wanted to ask her meaning but was seized with the sudden feeling of every blood vessel catching fire. The rush of the rain and Celeste’s voice filled his ears to nearly bursting. His field of vision faded to white, and he knew no more.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Slowly Holmes’ mind returned to him with a woman’s whisper still ringing in his ears. He opened his eyes to golden sunlight and the scent of petrichor. He looked to his sore, throbbing arm and found it wrapped tightly, if crudely, in a bandage. A relieved sigh and familiar voice came from the shadows to his right.

“You lived. Encouraging.” Celeste Lefay stepped from where she sat beneath a tree. She tried to sound nonchalant, but Holmes noticed the relief in her voice and surprise in her eyes.

“I’m sturdier than I look,” he countered, keeping his tone light. “Though I must say, your field medicine could use a touch more… finesse.” He gestured to her handiwork with his good arm, noticing a metallic glint among the wrappings. “What is this?”

“That,” Celeste said as she crouched down to look him in the eye, “is a reliquary.” She pulled the chain containing the remaining two from her belt for his inspection. “It is a reserve of my magical power that I stored up previously. Very useful for more complicated spellwork, or the magical equivalent to a transfusion.”

He looked at the chain curiously, touched by the resources she expended on his behalf. “This was a last resort.”

Celeste nodded solemnly. “Normally, humans have a limited physical aptitude for any magic in their system. Too much magic and they can potentially be driven mad or left in constant pain, but most often, they die. Your aptitude, however,” she said as she helped Holmes to a standing position, “is surprisingly high. I was able to utilize enough magic to heal you.”

“So, when Ms. Bouvril said humans were genetically incompatible with magic, she meant…”

“Literally,” Celeste finished.

The duo had collected their belongings from the orchard and stood at the head of the Gaunt’s trail into the shadowy woods, the sun warm on their backs. Holmes looked to Celeste with humble appreciation. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.

She gave him a self-conscious quirk of a smile. “Don’t get maudlin. Our work is far from done.”

With that they started trudging through the bramble. The trail that guided them was crude, and rife with thorns and patches of mud, but they intrepidly followed the path of decay the Gaunt had laid. There were a few times Celeste attempted to scamper up a tree after a better view, but the canopy was too thick and load bearing branches too few. She hopped down from an elm with a dejected huff as Holmes squelched his foot out of another mud puddle.

“If you don’t mind my clarifying, that genetic incompatibility with humans and magic only applies to magic absorbed into the person and not the use of magical objects. Am I correct?” He asked.  
She looked back at him, bemused. “Correct. Though, in my experience, humans intent on evil can only be satisfied by petty alchemy so long before they try to put raw magic in their veins. Are you so certain the murderer is human?”

“Well, let us consider our suspects. There is Mr. Hangley, who was too cowardly to insult you without your back turned. While I doubt he has the fortitude to commit murder, he is the doorway to our culprit. Crowbeck is the key. Otherwise, any of the spurned wives or their husbands could be responsible, but it’s more likely we’d be looking at Hangley’s corpse were that the case. Then there is Lord Weatherby…”

“Didn’t he hire you?”

“Yes, and he wouldn’t be the first jealous toff to hire me for the express purpose of framing his wife. Even if Lady Weatherby is sincerely repentant of her near-infidelity, His Lordship has a high-profile position and reputation to match, and Pride is an exacting vice in a man.”

“But he has no family connection to Crowbeck and no idea what transpired between Hangley and Lady Weatherby,” interjected Celeste.

“Quite right. He remains trusting and virtuous, so it is far from likely, though not so much I would dismiss the thought completely. Do you still harbor misgivings regarding Her Ladyship, or were you using that solely as an intimidation tactic?”

Celeste sighed as she hacked a tall briar away from the path with her knife. “I don’t think she’s calloused enough for malice aforethought, but a crime of passion? Possibly. Can you think of any other candidates?”

The trail led them to a wall, half its stones spilling over the hillside and overgrown with young, densely packed trees. They followed the perimeter until they could find a divot sturdy enough to climb over. Holmes tested the stones with his cane before climbing upwards.

“I think we should be looking closer at Gerry Dodders.”

“The grave robber?”

Holmes held his hand out from the top of the wall, helping Celeste to the other side. “Evil is a banal thing Miss Lefay. Incompetence is not a hindrance for hate. He has the connection to Hangley, no issue breaking the law, a marked resentment toward the well-moneyed, was present the night of our attack, and then there’s the way he insulted you.” He sniffed distastefully as they vaulted down the opposite side.

Anything else Holmes had to say regarding his hypothesis died on his tongue, for they had cleared the underbrush enough to get a look at their destination. And what lay on the hillside before them was nothing short of a ruined necropolis. Crumbling mausoleums crowded next to each other in crooked rows while chipped headstones shingled out from the shadows. It was a striking memorial to the Hangley family’s mortality, but all the while Nature took back her due. The slabs and crosses were slowly being digested by the lichen and moss. Long, thick grass sprung from between monuments and articulated in the wind like fingers. Stout trees with knobby roots invaded the cemetery space, destroying the stone around them and reaching laborious branches to the sky. The clouds above, while no longer threatening rain, rolled dramatically in the sky, adding to the Gothic ambience.

Holmes let out a low whistle. “Toil and trouble indeed.” He looked to Celeste, who already began scanning the nearest mausoleums for names. “I can assist in finding the grave that has most recently disturbed, should you have need.”

She nodded, her focus still on the weathered stones. “Once we’ve located it, then my work begins.” Celeste looked at Holmes solemnly. “And I lay the dead to rest.”


	18. The Cutting of a Thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a prize match in the center ring, and a flustered detective in the fairy ring.

It took the better part of an hour, but the combined efforts of both Officer and detective found the proper grave. Of course it was tucked in a shadowy corner, two melancholy willows flanking the single vault near the wall. The slab was worn and discolored, but not so much that the austere coppelate CROWBECK could not be seen engraved on the top like a warning. A large hole had been dug under the mausoleum sometime last month, though the rains in the past weeks made it a muddy mess impossible to excavate further. Celeste had to anchor Holmes by the shoulder to keep him from falling in. 

“Well,” said Holmes kicking the muck off his boot. “Unless you can turn me into a mole, that’s all the evidence I can gather.”

“We can save the transfiguration for a later date, I think”

“Is that a promise?” He asked, mischief and curiosity in his eyes. She cackled in return.

With the resting place found, Celeste began preparing for the cleansing spell, with Holmes helping where he could. He set the boundary stones at the compass points and aided with the salt and herbs. She traced the confines of the spell design in the earth with her foot, using a diagram in her notebook as a guide.

Holmes handed Celeste the last candle from her pack. “What else must be done?”

“We’re almost ready,” she said without looking up. She waved her hand distractedly. “Just take three strides to the left.” He did so. “Now two large steps backward,” she added without looking. 

“Now what?” Asked Holmes, futilely waving his arms against her inattentiveness. 

“Catch.” With that, she whirled around and tossed him one of her reliquary coins. He registered a change in the air pressure as he caught it, and moments later a circle of soft blue light surrounded him. It was firm to the touch.

“Miss Lefay?” Holmes’ voice betrayed no small amount of confusion and the edge of a warning. Celeste smiled sheepishly up at him as she sauntered to the edge of the force field.

“I do apologize for my little trick, Mr. Holmes, but I assure you this is all to prevent you further injury. The spell will draw the Gaunt out again before I can weaken it, and I’d rather have its attention focused on my magic than you.”

“So you choose to cage me inside your magic?”

“Not necessarily. Look down, Detective.”

Holmes looked to his feet, where he was surrounded by a troop of perfectly white, round mushrooms, and sighed. “A fairy-ring? Really?”

She shrugged. “Less work for me. And it is quite strong, so long as you don’t damage any of the mushrooms. Besides, I have entrusted you with that,” Celeste pointed to the reliquary coin. “After this spell, that will be the only one left unspent. Should I need healing, or any borrowed power while taking down the creature…”

“You’ll need this,” finished Holmes, understanding the importance of the tiny object under his protection, particularly since he had contributed to her depleting reserves of magic earlier in the day. He pocketed the coin with a solemn nod. “Happy conjuring then, Miss Lefay,” he said cheerily.

Celeste strode back to the mausoleum while Holmes busied himself with lighting a cigarette, still keeping an eye on her. She knelt at the center of the spell design and snapped her fingers over the candles. They sputtered to vibrant flame. As she held her reliquary over the dead center, a vibrating tension seemed to permeate the area. Shadows drew closer and the wind picked up, and despite his protective field, Holmes felt acutely exposed on the hillside. Once the coin fell to the ground, a psionic explosion engulfed the air around them. The lines of the spell mandala glowed with wild magenta light, now matching the flames of the candles. Holmes idly wondered if all the magical effects manifested so strongly because of the power of the spell, or any residual sensitivity he gained from his healing. The Fae language certainly felt clearer and more discernable to his ears than previously. He did note Officer Lefay did not seem daunted by surrounding theatricalities of her work, not even when a rumbling grey mist bubbled up from the mausoleum.

And up from the viscous fog came the grasping form of the Gaunt. While the fog protected it from the sun, to Holmes it seemed… haggard in the daylight. A bag of unhappy bones, straining at the confines of Miss Lefay’s spell. She smiled slightly, confident as she met the beast on her own terms. 

“You trespass on this plane, Shade.” She spoke in Fae, her voice resonating with absolute authority. “Your time here has concluded, only to be brought back as an Abomination.” The spell kept the Gaunt barred from both escape and lunging at his tormentor, but that didn’t stop it from scratching at its bonds and howling. Jingling from the creature’s rib cage was a heavy steel padlock. Something about its solid, utilitarian shape felt familiar to Holmes. However, the incongruity of its current ghoulish setting kept the answer just beyond his comprehension. So distracted was he, the Gaunt’s shriek startled him enough to drop his cigarette, though his counterpart’s concentration never wavered.

Her expression turned nearly tender. “It is in my power to grant you a mercy, free from the shackles of your contract. Receive, without malice, the gift of rest. Do you accept this?” The Gaunt’s only reply was to thrash viciously at its bonds. The spell held, though Holmes noted there was a bit more give to the violet light than previously. Celeste persevered through the strain with her brow determined and her shoulders squared. 

The Fae looked up at her quarry with a gleefully feral smile. “So be it then,” and with an emphatic wave of her hand, the surrounding circles of violet light twisted and tightened. The herbs and wildflowers they’d meticulously placed in the spell took root and sprouted in rapid time, overtaking even the granite of the mausoleum before their eyes. 

“I take from you the water. I take from you the earth. No longer will it be bound in stasis to sustain you. It will serve new life.” The salt rose up from its place on the ground and joined the rising candle flames in a vortex around the Gaunt. 

“I cleanse from you, the air. I use against you, the fire. Your every move through this world will be one step further to your destruction.” The abrasive cyclone of salt and fire worked with the resolute invasion of vegetation to wipe the name from the grave marker. Whichever Crowbeck this was, they would be utterly lost to history. 

“I release from you, your name.” Celeste reached her hand out toward the Gaunt, commanding the space between them. “And I shall release from you, your pact.”

The Officer took a step forward, hand still extended, but the monster before her finally stretched the spell’s confines to their breaking point. One of its skeletal hands shot out of its bounds and backhanded her across the midsection. She went reeling through the air before crashing into a headstone. Holmes nearly breached the protective field of the fairy ring trying to go to her but remembered its purpose. Luckily, the Gaunt took no notice of him but shot into the sky and flew far away from the cemetery, howling in the open air. The lights and fury of the spell flickered and faded, leaving only candle stubs and a crumbling mausoleum overtaken by an herb garden. Miss Lefay had not moved from where she landed in the debris of the headstone, but Holmes could at least observe her breathing.

“Bugger it all,” Holmes muttered, kicking at the mushrooms until a break in the ring dissolved the circle of light around him. He darted straight for the woman hunched over on the grass.

“Miss Lefay,” he called, jostling her shoulder slightly. “Miss Lefay? Officer!”

She looked up at him with a lopsided grin and a small stream of blood dripping from her nose. “Ah, my title. How novel.”

Holmes suppressed a relieved laugh. “Are you injured, _Officer_ Lefay? Can you stand?”

“To the former, less than I anticipated. To the latter, if you would be so kind as to assist…”

As they stood, Holmes looked grimly to the horizon. “The beast got away.”

“I expected it to,” Celeste responded, borrowing the detective’s handkerchief to clean her face. “My goal was to strip as much power from it before it broke its bonds. I wasn’t quite able to destroy the pact, but we destroyed its home. It has nowhere to go but to its master, and they will not be enough to sustain it.”

“That will be an advantage in tracking our murderer, so long as the Gaunt does not self-destruct with its summoner in tow.”

Celeste cavalierly tossed her bag over her shoulder and beamed back at him. “We should have one or two more days before that happens. And both will be much easier to handle next time, with the power supply cut off and all.”

“What do suggest as a further plan of action?” Holmes asked as they hiked their way across the fields.

“I should have enough material gathered to strengthen our weapons against the Gaunt. I’ll put an extra hex on my knife. If I might borrow the bullets to your revolver, I could do the same for you.”

“Much obliged.” Holmes handed over the contents of his firearm, in addition to the last reliquary, as the two strolled over the Weatherby lawn. They walked the border of the rose garden, coming to a stop near the ballroom, where a strange picnic lay before them. Lady Weatherby held court from her chair and tea service, with the Staunton twins sitting on the blankets around her. Ms. Bouvril and Mrs. Ponce were magically festooning the ballroom windows with wreaths and swaths of fabric. Holmes was distracted from the scene by a small, panicked whine from Miss Lefay.

“The feast of St. Cerridwen,” she rasped in explanation. “I forgot they were holding it tonight.”

“How is this more daunting to you than what we just faced in the cemetery?”

The Officer was practically hiding behind his coattails. “Because Gaunts do not expect you to be cordial at formal events filled with people you do not know while simultaneously having to do your job. Now, let’s pretend to be a pantomime horse and leave before they…”

“Oh, there you are, Celeste Darling!” Called Lady Weatherby.

“…see me.”

Holmes practically pushed her ahead of him towards the party. “Come now, Officer. Take your defeat like a soldier.” He walked steadfastly behind her, acutely aware of the skeptical eyes fixed upon him. “Well, our defeat.” Once they stood before Lady Weatherby, she gave word for Eleanor Staunton to hop up and wrap Celeste in a robe that, with some strategic buttons and expert draping, looked exactly like a respectable walking dress. Celeste gave a resigned sigh to her new confines and straightened her hair.

“There,” said Lila. “You look like a proper lady. Don’t you think so, Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes started at his mention and sheepishly inclined his head under the lady’s exacting gaze, feeling suddenly scrutinized and isolated. He felt the eyes of each lady bore into him as they anticipated his words, and he wondered if corpses in anatomy classes felt near as exposed.

“I have been educating Mr. Holmes on our constitutional,” said Celeste, coming to his defense. “Regarding Fae habits, local history, most everything pertinent. He passes muster.” The women understood the weight of her words behind the euphemisms, and instantly the itchy examined feeling ceased.

Mrs. Ponce gave an approving nod. “Welcome to the ranks then, Sir.” 

“Your commanding officer has been very patient with me,” he replied. “I do apologize if, in my ignorance, my methods treated you callously.”

“Such is the way of men,” Lady Weatherby said, inclining her head in forgiveness. “You are listening now, and that is what matters. Maybe you can use your newfound perspective to influence others.”  
It was then one of the Staunton’s scampered to the crest of the hill. “That constable is back in Mr. Grange’s cart,” she said. “He seems a trifle worried. I suspect looking for you, Sir.” She looked pointedly at Holmes.

Celeste hurriedly gripped Lady Weatherby’s wrist and whispered, “There is much we need to discuss.”

Lila gently placed her hand atop Celeste’s. “Yes, we do. Tonight, when we’re dressing for the feast,” she said with an enigmatic smile. “In the meantime, send off your man to do our bidding.”

“Mind how you phrase that, Lila,” said Celeste with a shrewd look. “And don’t let any of them get to gossiping.”

Lady Weatherby grinned back at her friend as she marched said man away from the rest of the coven. “I make no promises,” she called after them. Celeste grumbled.

“I did not think they would be as vicious to you as they were to me,” pondered Holmes when they were out of earshot. 

“From their perspective, I was just saying yesterday not to trust you with a word, and here I come sauntering through the heather beside you without so much as a warning. Even if they trust me, it looks more than a little irksome.” 

The clatter of Grange’s cart got louder, and he turned to see Constable Clifton sitting beside the driver, wildly gesticulating in their direction.

“I suppose it would be gauche to ask if you could turn into a mouse and hide in my pocket?”

“Alas, that is a permit I’ve yet to obtain. However, I appreciate the offer. In the meantime, Her Ladyship awaits.”

A nod from the detective. “I expect there will be much we need tell each other when next we meet. At tonight’s festivities, perhaps?”

“Just look for the only wallflower bored to tears,” Celeste said wryly. Holmes chuckle slightly.

She turned to leave but the detective called after her. “Out of curiosity, after today’s adventure, what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you trust me?”

Celeste was still for a moment, looking back at him with her crooked smile. “We’ll get the job done, my friend. Of that I’m certain.”


	19. The Key of C Minor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a party, a waltz, and a revelation

Sherlock Holmes dressed for a formal occasion in record time, without losing any of his immaculate attention to detail. He always brought his tails to cases such as these, where toffs tended to host soirees for the slightest of reasons, so it was with swift, rote machination that he transformed from practical tweeds to white tie attire. This freed his mind to review the wealth of new _(terrible, infuriating)_ information he had to share with Officer Lefay post haste. And even as the women of the house welcomed him to their confidence, they would not have appreciated him barging into their dressing room to avail their leader, no matter how much her knives and her rage were in demand. No, tonight would be their misguided gift to her. A new ballgown and some feminine frivolity in exchange for giving them a taste of adventure, and in Lady Weatherby’s case, standing as a bulwark between her and the destruction of her marriage. But despite their noble efforts, the insistence of duty would soon call both the Officer and himself, and he was afraid it would call tonight.

As he entered the ballroom, Holmes was struck by the breadth of diversity surrounding him. Nearly the entire village was in attendance, highborn and low, Fae and human, child and adult, all bedecked in the finest clothes they could find. Lord Weatherby was having the time of his life, flitting between local farmers and factory men to discuss their working conditions. In between labor policy, he would cast adoring glances at his wife, which she ardently returned. That, and the pointed absence of a certain jeweler told the story of a couple’s reconciliation and a cad’s subsequent just desserts. He wondered if that would factor into Crowbeck’s brewing revenge, or if he would cast aside his pawn for good. 

Holmes took a respite from observing the party-goers to gaze at the decor festooned across the expanse of the ballroom. Inside and outside were festive swags of violet fabric, anchored by two dozen wreaths, bedecked with herbs and flowers he suspected traditional to this specific holiday. But still, he had gotten a rudimentary course in herb craft this morning, and the intricate shape within the wreath had a familiar, arcane quality. And the mushrooms were unmistakable. Surely…

“Admiring our handiwork, Mr. Holmes?” Asked Mrs. Ponce as she sidled next to him. She smiled at him warmly and looked like Demeter in springtime, with her emerald gown and flowers in her frosted auburn hair.

Holmes returned the grin. “Indeed, I was. And very clever of you to hide a protective ward in it.”

“Celeste was right; you are quite the fast learner. Care to take this old matron for a turn around the room?” He obligingly held her arm out for her, and together they were able to skirt around the festivities uninterrupted. “I’ve no talent for subterfuge, unlike our dear Officer. But when I heard it was likely necromancy afoot in this poor village, I thought it best to protect everyone without getting them in a panic.”

“Hence the celebration.”

“And we were so industrious, there were enough wreaths to give to the kitchens and the stables.” Mrs. Ponce lowered her voice discreetly. “For those who didn’t feel comfortable rubbing elbows with the gentry.”

“A tactical master stroke, Mrs. Ponce,” said Holmes, admiring her ingenuity. “I don’t believe I exaggerate when I say you will save lives tonight. While I cannot reveal to you the culprit for your own safety, rest assured I will give all the aid I can for Miss Lefay to finish her good work before the dawn.”

“I’m sure you will. And I’m happy to see you will be well protected, yourself.” She tapped the lapel of his waistcoat, where he pinned the sleek black feather that had been his first Fae souvenir. He was still uncertain of its exact abilities, but the Midwife’s approval bolstered his confidence.

Mrs. Ponce deposited Holmes near the fireplace opposite the entrance. “You take care, young man,” She said with a parting wink. “May you persevere.”

He nodded to her as she left, taking stock of his surroundings and seeing Officer Lefay leaned against the mantle not far from him. And she was beautiful. Her gown, a striking mixture of black, white, and silver, accentuated the toned muscles of her shoulders and arms. A dramatic cascade of pleats and ribbons fanned out from her back to curl around her, utilizing her effortlessly strong posture. Her hair was swept high on the crown of her head into an intricate mass, tucked delicately behind her pointed ears.

Miss Lefay’s beauty was not an entirely remarkable observation. All the women in attendance were beautiful, each showcasing their inimitable personalities. From the goddess-like maternal warmth of Mrs. Ponce to the youthful vivacity of the Staunton twins. From the regal grace of Lady Weatherby receiving visitors to the sharp-witted directness of Ms. Bouvril as she charismatically discussed chemistry with the local school masters. The Officer was no different, English beauty standards only accentuating her status as in cognito Valkyrie. A very… bored, mildly anxious Valkyrie. The fact of Celeste Lefay’s beauty was a mathematical certainty, but the fact she was miserable… That was just entertaining.

Holmes stood next to her and brazenly lit a cigarette in the ballroom. “I’ve heard on good authority that there is a concurrent celebration in the stables, which sounds much more your taste. Say the word, and I shall facilitate your escape.”

“It will be all for naught so long as I am shackled to this,” She brandished her dance card that previously was poorly hidden under her elbow. It was tied securely, even magically, to her wrist. She looked at it with disgust. “Lady Weatherby intends to check it at the end of the night.”

Without sparing a glance, Holmes took a long drag on his cigarette, then held it to her dance card until it burned off its ribbon, the charred paper fragments floating listlessly into the fireplace. The Leopard threw her head back with laughter.

“A Derryn put to good use. For saving me from the onslaught of inane dancing requests, you have my appreciation.”

Holmes looked sheepish as he turned to face her. “All save one, I’m afraid.” He held his hand out between them. “There has been quite a turn of events, and Herr Strauss is providing the most adequate cover for privacy.”

Miss Lefay raised an eyebrow at him and sighed with bemusement before taking his hand. The opening strains of a waltz floated through the room as they strode to the center of the dance floor. Celeste caught the eyes of the Staunton twins as they passed, and they separated to cause distractions on either side of the ballroom. The gossip, at least, would not break their cover. They would just have to ignore the sidelong looks from Lady Weatherby and Mrs. Ponce. 

As they assumed the waltzing position, Holmes stiffened, his eyes wide with dawning trepidation. “It just now occurs to me I have deliberately forgotten how to dance.”

“Shouldn’t that be something to remember before enacting your brilliant plan?” Asked Celeste, holding back laughter.

“It did not seem like pertinent information at the time.”

His dancing partner rolled her eyes and took his hand. “Well, never you fear, for until your muscle memory catches up, I can lead left-handed.”

Holmes nodded, and away they went, gliding across the floor with grace and precision. True to her word, Miss Lefay took the lead, able to direct him through the steps with subtlety and confidence. After a few bars, Holmes’ body finally regained the memory his brain so pragmatically rejected. Then they were binary stars, twirling among the other dancers in comfortable tandem.

Once satisfied their conversation would not be noticed among the dance floor, Celeste surveyed Holmes’ gloomy face. “I do have good news,” she started.

“More than the Weatherby’s reconciliation? Not that such news isn’t fortuitous, it’s just…”

“Blindingly obvious?” Finished Celeste, smirking at the saccharine couple in question dancing not far from them.

“Precisely. I would guess that has something to do with the village rake not being in attendance.”

Celeste gave a self-satisfied little hum. “Not only was Lord Weatherby a perfect gentleman to his wife, he co-signed a series of letters with her exposing Hangley. This gave the other women in the village the courage to come forward. He tried to come to the party tonight, but a line of village locals sent him elsewhere, rather emphatically.”

“Did all the husbands put their support behind their wives?”

“To a man. The Weatherbys made for an effective example.”

Holmes smiled warmly. “A bright light in a weary world, indeed.”

“Hangley is expected to be gone by morning.” Celeste’s grin broadened. “And just in time with her Ladyship being -oh what is that human euphemism- in a delicate condition?”

A raised eyebrow from her dance partner. “And there is no doubt that…”

“Lord Weatherby’s parentage is assured, yes,” said Celeste with a reassuring smile, but her eyes narrowed at Holmes’ expression. “But that is still a liability, isn’t it?” She watched the storm gathering in his expression. “What did you learn at the jailhouse?”

Holmes took a fortifying breath, looked to the ceiling, and let it out. “Clifton is the murderer. Right under my nose this whole time.”

Celeste blinked twice. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“I don’t know how I didn’t see it before,” grumbled the detective. “That puerile adoration of his was so thickly applied.”

“And I’ve no doubt some of that was genuine, like a version of himself he could always turn to face you. A wise man did once say that evil is a banal thing. Admiration is not a hindrance to hate.” Holmes smiled despite the situation. “Now,” continued Celeste frankly. “Tell me what happened.”

“Firstly, the reason Clifton wanted me at the jailhouse so urgently was obvious as soon as I entered. Our previous prime suspect was hanging from the rafters.”

“Shite,” barked the lady in the middle of a ballroom.

“Precisely. Now, I’m sure you’re familiar with the particulars of a staged suicide: the obnoxious perfection of everything just so, as if our species isn’t chaotic by nature. Even with Clifton near on top of me, it was obvious Gerry Dodders did not wish to go gently into that good night. He did leave a note, though I’m fairly certain the man would never use the phrase ‘absolute contrition’ in a sentence, much less spell it correctly. The thing confounding me regarding that letter is that it does seem to be in his exact hand, though as if he were writing it with a pen tied to a yard stick. I can’t think of a scientific explanation for this anomaly; can you think of a magical one?”

Miss Lefay’s eyebrows knitted together in deliberation before shooting up in alarm. “There are ways to directly control a person’s actions, though few are available to humans and none of those are pleasant. If Clifton used that kind of control to make Dodders write his own suicide note then off himself, that would be rapid escalation indeed. Please tell me you found more evidence.”

Holmes looked at her incredulously. “I should feel offended you felt the need to say that.”

Celeste shrugged. “It’s not that I don’t trust your conclusions. I’d just like a more concrete reason to-“

“-To slice him into a fleshy pulp, that much is obvious from your expression.” The Officer accepted his summation of her brutality with a shrug. “Even then I was not sure Clifton was the culprit, until I saw the blasted locks on the cells.”

“What of them?”

“At the cemetery, I was able to see the Gaunt in daylight and including the lock on its ribcage. There was a familiar quality about it that eluded me until I stood in that jail cell and realized that not only is it a standard issue police padlock, but the serial numbers before and after it dangled from the cell doors next to me. After that, so many little anomalies began to converge into a larger whole. You may remember Clifton arrived this afternoon at the kindness of Duncan Grange when he had heretofore used his own carriage on any previous visits? I found his horse dead behind the constabulary coal shed. A dead horse on its own is no damnation, but an emaciated quarter horse covered in scratches and an ashy residue?”

Miss Lefay let out a weighty puff of air. “The Gaunt would be hungry after the cleansing. I was certain it would go straight for its master, but I never expected Clifton to offer up something so close to him to placate it.”

Holmes gripped her waltzing hand tighter. “From the way it lay there, that horse was the nearest creature to Clifton when the Gaunt arrived. If it had been a person…”

“He’s more dangerous than we expected. I need to act upon this tonight. Please tell me you have proof tying him to Crowbeck or Hangley.”

The detective’s hand left her waist surreptitiously to produce a miniscule box from his breast pocket. “I wouldn’t call Clifton a snuff man, would you?”

Celeste inspected the little silver box, decorated with an ornate ‘C’ and stylized ravens. There was a distinct patina belying its age and scratched into the smooth metal of the inside lid was the word ‘Crowbeck’ in the harsh amateur scrawl of a daydreaming child with a penknife. Her face lit up it in triumph.

“It’s part of a set,” said the detective, his zeal matching hers. “The case to the fountain pen had the full name in the filigree. Unfortunately, it was far too large and in a prominent position on the desk for  
me to steal. I did give it a shake when the constable was closing the cell. Funny how something rattled inside it when all the pens were accounted for in the inkwell.”

“That’s where the pact is sealed, and where the Gaunt rests so long as Clifton can feed it.” Celeste’s smile curled into one of fiendish glee. “Mr. Holmes, I daresay you got him.”

“Not quite yet, Officer Lefay. I believe that’s your job,” said Holmes with a chuckle. “Now, Miss Leopard, how do you want to do this?”

“Not in a gown, that’s for sure. It won’t take more than ten minutes for me to be back down here in my uniform, knives in hand. Arriving in my official capacity might help others’ cooperation. I don’t expect Clifton to harm anyone in this room, but I’d rather confront him away from the crowd for precaution’s sake.”

“Agreed. I can lure him outside when you’re ready.”

“That will be helpful. But only on my signal, understood? I don’t want anyone alone with Clifton longer than absolutely necessary.” Celeste scanned the length of the ballroom. “Now, where is he?”

Holmes indicated a point behind her with his chin. “Right over there, pretending to listen to the county barrister. I’ve been keeping him in sight most of the night. He arrived later than most and has been keeping to the periphery. Though we have not escaped his notice. For the duration of the waltz, he’s been alternating between glaring at you and the Weatherbys.”

“I shall just have to draw his gaze more fully then,” the Officer grumbled, looking exasperated. 

The two dancers found themselves at the base of the grand staircase, their orbit around each other ending with the waltz. After a beat, they separated. 

“We shall dance again tonight, but I fear the tempo may not be one to encourage conversation,” spoke Holmes first. “Until then, it was a pleasure working with you, Officer Lefay. Thank you for your enlightenment, as painful as it was.” He offered his hand and she shook it heartily.

“Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Holmes. You were not near as useless as I expected,” replied Celeste with a wink, and received a similar wink in return. “You’ve seen the color of my magic. The light will be my signal.” 

Satisfied with a nod from her dancing partner, the lady ascended the staircase, off to be the Valkyrie she always was. Holmes stood at the curl of the banister, intent to make sure no one noticed her leaving. The benefit of hiding a mirror in one’s pocket watch is being able to see the room while simultaneously checking the time. And it was half past eight and Constable Andrew Clifton was staring at the upstairs hallway with the most hateful scowl known to man. His normally earnest boyishness was contorted into a mask of bitterness and contempt. The moment seemed to stretch for an eternity, but it was seconds before Clifton took a deep breath and nodded, as if reaching a decision. He turned on his heel and strode to the terrace exit, and that was when Holmes snapped the pocket watch closed. He knew the importance of keeping to Officer Lefay’s plan. He also knew the danger Clifton posed, and how effective he could be if someone was caught unawares. The detective considered the wards in the wreaths, keeping the party-goers snug and safe. He considered how no such wreaths adorned the upstairs rooms. He considered the malice teeming in Clifton’s eyes when they were turned toward a Fae lady, and he considered the admiration in those same eyes when they were turned towards him. He could at least stall Clifton until the Leopard was ready. Keep him distracted and in the open, until she could pick him off. Reassuring himself his revolver still hid within his tailcoat, Holmes briskly followed Clifton’s path to the door, his mind made up.

It is, as they say, better to ask forgiveness than permission.


	20. The Last Crowbeck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes is hoping Crowbeck is a monologuing sort. Though he might not be so enthused to find out how.

Holmes followed Clifton’s trail around the terrace to the rose garden, where he found him prying open the secret doors on the gargoyle. He muttered to himself as he fiddled with the handles, masking the detective’s arrival.

“Constable?” Holmes asked innocently. No response from Clifton.

“Mr. Clifton,” He tried again, his voice harsh with stern authority. Still nothing.

“Crowbeck,” called Holmes in a sing-song voice, a little softer than the other calls. At this, the man stopped his fiddling, and his back straightened.

“Oh, Mister Holmes,” he said, not turning around. “You found out. I knew you would. You always find out.” His voice still retained the fervent adoration it had for the last week, but coupled with his unnatural stillness and malicious actions, any charm was lost. It left Holmes with a vague tinge of nausea, and a prickling on the back of his neck, despite his stiff collar and the warmth of the evening.

“Mr. Holmes, I had hoped to explain my perspective. It must seem very messy, looking in from the outside.”

“You’ve killed two people.”

“Have I?” Clifton cocked his head to the side, still facing away from Holmes. “I had to do an unfortunate amount of persuading for Mr. Dodders to make his final decision, but it really was the best outcome for him. No more half-life of cheating and petty larceny. No more mocking authority every time he walked home from justice.” The constable’s shoulders stiffened; his resentment clear.

Holmes measured his breathing. His revolver had grown warm from the tight grip he held within his coat pocket. “And Miss Montclair?” He asked, stalling further for time as he kept watch for a flash of magenta in his periphery.

Clifton laughed to himself. “That frail little Witch cheated the Reaper long enough. She wanted to be a good girl. She should have laid down and accepted it then, rather than go running like a scared little mouse. They all want to be good witches, but their true nature always wins out in the end.” The constable began pacing a short line between Holmes and the gargoyle, hands in his pockets and a frustrated scowl upon his face. “They can’t help it. All those Fae women… so polite to your face, but the moment your back is turned, they start whispering. Whispering in the town meetings and public houses, whispering to their husbands and their vicars and each other. Whispering until every decision I’ve made has been torn asunder, and then they can draw circles in the dirt and play the hero.” He stopped suddenly and turned his uncanny cold gaze upon his idol. “Much the way the London Witch has been whispering to you.”

One look from the man told Holmes he had entertained this diatribe long enough. He stepped forward and withdrew his revolver, but a sudden stabbing pain in his arm caused him to drop the firearm before he could point it at his target. He looked up to see Clifton holding a crude clay figure, wrapped in a handkerchief, the monogramed SH fluttering at the corner unmistakable. A long, wicked-looking needle stuck out from the corresponding arm to the one uselessly curled against his chest. Holmes reached out with the other to snatch the doll away, but a second pin in its thigh sent him to his knees. This was not the cauterizing fire of Celeste Lefay’s fearsome healing. This was ice cold and bone deep, unraveling all concentration. He gritted his teeth against the pain as his adversary knelt to look down on him.

“I am terribly sorry,” Clifton said, his voice still soft, still admiring. “But later you will be grateful for my precautions. Once the London Witch has been eliminated, we can undo the damage done to your excellent mind. I’ve found ways to remove their influence, you see. It can be tedious, and uncomfortable at times, but quite effective. Of course, I shall have to return to London with you, and probably assist on your next cases while you recover.

Holmes remembered a former army doctor who might have objections to that proposition, but now was not the time for interruptions. Not with Crowbeck removing the silver case containing the Gaunt from his pocket and reverently placing it on the ground, thumb on the latch.  
“I, of course, will be taking my dear Great-Uncle with me, in case of any threats to the peace. He’s been so beneficial to my efforts here; it’s a wonder there aren’t more like him in law enforcement. Maybe I shall start a trend.” He chuckled softly, as if he and the detective just shared some private joke. “Maybe I shall surpass you.”

Holmes swallowed thickly as he watched Clifton rise and straighten his shirt front, turning to open the doors of the secret passage. The phantom pain kept him panting and pinned to the ground, but he forced his mind to focus. “It must be dreadful, relegated to such a mundane position after failing the entrance exams for Scotland Yard thrice. I sympathize, Constable Crowbeck.” He said the self-imposed name with a mocking lilt, watching with satisfaction as the man’s hands clenched into fists.

“And very brave of you, manufacturing a threat of your own design so you could sweep in to stop it, despite not having hunted anything larger than a badger. Your confidence must be soaring.”  
Crowbeck stomped back towards him, the indignant shock plain on his face.

“And since this is your first hunt as a big, strong man, let me give you some advice. At least while I have the mental faculties to give it.” Holmes locked eyes with his tormentor, his glare intense enough to stop him still. “You hunt a leopard, Son. Unlike any quarry you have ever faced. Leopards are silent, cunning, this one in particular is quite vicious, and above all…” The detective allowed a small smile. “… famously adept at climbing.”

Before Clifton could register the full impact of Holmes’ words, the full impact of Celeste Lefay’s boots smacked solidly into his chest. He was sent flying, the doll landing in the grass in beside Holmes, who felt the impact somewhere near his sacrum. Officer Lefay landed crouched between the two men, snarling at Clifton with bared teeth, weapons drawn. 

She glanced back at the detective, nodding slightly before charging at Clifton at full speed. She held a violet-tinged blade in each hand, but he answered with two daggers of his own. Primitive, jagged things Holmes fearfully recognized as cold-forged iron. The two combatants whirled around each other in a flurry of slashes, punches, and grapples. Miss Lefay would gracefully dodge the iron knives by mere inches, but what advantage she had in skill, Clifton matched in ferocity. He would jab at her with no caution for even his own safety, bolstered by a confidence that the iron would only exsanguinate him, but poison her.

Determined to join the fray, Holmes used his good arm to drag the rest of him towards his revolver, but he paused upon finding the little figure causing him so much pain. He grasped it but managed to nudge a needle, sending another shock of agony through his arm. He was at a loss for how to alleviate the pain until he noticed a little black tendril sticking out of his lapel. The raven feather, the fairy-gift. On impulse, Holmes plucked it from his vest and stabbed it into the heart of his offending proxy. A small violet spark flashed, and he briefly felt the fire in his veins again, but when the heat subsided, his limbs were his own. No phantom pain pinned him to the ground. He leapt to his feet, scrabbling for his revolver on his way up. Holmes looked to the fight, where Clifton made a too-close swipe at Miss Lefay’s face, snapping a pendant from her neck and sending his direction. She backflipped to get out of the way, and Holmes took that opportunity to aim his revolver at the Constable. 

Clifton looked up with a frustrated grunt and produced his own firearm, aiming it back at his hero. Before he could fire, the Leopard latched onto his back with a shriek, throwing off his aim. Holmes dove away from the shot, which found a target behind him in the cursed pen case. With a metallic ping, the hinge snapped off and wisps of grey smoke began to curl outside the open lid.

As the misshapen form of the Gaunt grew from the mist, Holmes turned to warn Miss Lefay only to see Clifton strike her temple with his elbow. He used her distraction to knock to the ground and pin her with his foot planted between her shoulder blades. The shambling corpse floated toward its master, who was holding his knife dangerously close to Miss Lefay’s face and barking for the Gaunt to come finish her. Holmes scrambled to his feet, tangling his hands in the grass, bellowing inelegantly to distract the monster, but it continued undaunted. Making sure his revolver was loaded, he noticed it was not weeds entangled in his fingers, but the cord holding Celeste’s pendant. Time slowed down as Holmes studied the small circle in his hand, noting the size, weight, and the particular circular design etched into it…

His path clear, Holmes flung the pendant in the air between himself and the Gaunt, then aimed his revolver upward. With a flash of white smoke and a loud crack, he shot the pendant in the dead center, and the resultant explosion followed the bullet straight to the padlock jangling from the Gaunt’s rib cage. The broken lock dropped to the ground with a dull thud as a white glow surrounded the Gaunt. The beast howled and raged, seemingly drowning in a cloud of ash. The discordant roaring of Clifton joined it, furious at the damage done to his toy. It was cut short, however, by Celeste twisting her torso and kicking with both feet in order to shove him off her. She vaulted from the ground, not hesitating before sprinting towards Holmes and grabbing him by the shirtsleeve.

“Need to go. Need to go,” she kept saying as they stumbled toward the gargoyle, its doors ajar. The Constable pursued them, blinded enough by his rage he did not see the Gaunt reform, a being of smoke and pure malice, and set its sickly gaze upon him. The Officer and the detective clamored into the cellar passage, turning swiftly to close the doors behind them. In their shrinking window into the rose garden, they watched Clifton’s face turn from anger, to realization, to panic as the Gaunt caught up with him. The doors shut with a clang, Holmes using his jacket to bar the handles from opening, and Celeste holding them shut with her strength. They shuddered as the screams of Crowbeck and his creature split the air, co-mingling into one howl until all dissipated in the East wind.

For several minutes, the two leaned against the doors and attempted to regulate their breathing, staring sightlessly, disbelieving it was over. Slowly, Miss Lefay turned her wide violet eyes towards Holmes, swallowing thickly.

Before swatting him multiple times on the shoulder. “You absolute turnip, I told you to wait for my signal! Were you asleep for that part of the conversation?”

“He had already decided to ambush you before you left the hallway,” defended Holmes, flinching from the flurry of blows. “Clifton was going to send the Gaunt through this passage the same way he did with Miss Montclair. I was stalling him for time.”

Celeste rolled her eyes. “And a fine job you’d made of it.”

“How was I to be prepared for this aristocratic English prick to include voodoo in his arsenal?”

She didn’t respond immediately, but futilely tried to hide laughter until it tumbled out of her like a waterfall. Holmes joined, throwing his head back and cackling. She was still laughing as she stood up from her slumped position against the door offered her hand to the detective.

“Drink. I need one, and I sure as Hell owe you one. Shall we see if the party at the stables is still serving something decent?”

“Officer, you are a veritable font of good ideas,” said Holmes as he took her hand. He removed his coat from the handles and opened his side with a gentlemanly flourish. Celeste kicked open the other, and together they walked toward the stables. Nothing remained of their adversaries, save a large pile of ash the two carefully stepped around.

The East wind was far less considerate, and by dawn, what was once the last Crowbeck would be scattered across the countryside, never to be seen again.


	21. The New World Ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The danger has passed, and the explanations begin.

It was a peculiar sight to see Officer Celeste Lefay at her most… Official, mused Sherlock Holmes as they met outside the Weatherby’s foyer that morning. He had seen Celeste play the society chit, the blushing ingenue. He’d seen Celeste the conjuror, the confidant, the cunning strategist, the fearless Leopard, the right bloody nuisance, but this was the first time he’d seen her publicly representing her chosen profession. Her back was ramrod straight, her braid pulled into a tight coil. She wore an austere black dress, save for the crest of the Liaison Office emblazoned above her heart. The two entered the foyer to stand before the Weatherby’s and their guests, ready to give a tag-team summation. With her gloved hands clasped behind her back, Officer Lefay radiated absolute authority, which visibly unsettled the men present. Lord Weatherby kept looking between Celeste and his wife, coming to the startling realization that Fae women come in more than one model. Holmes stood slightly behind the Officer, giving her the lead in the explanations and staring down anyone who might still challenge her. It was, after all, how they agreed upon presenting the night before.

Many hours earlier, when the moon still hung pale in the sky and their hands were still shaking from the shock of surviving, Holmes and Lefay stumbled into the warm light surrounding the stables. Every groom, gardener, and hedge-farmer in the village sat smoking pipes and nursing pints under the glow of lanterns and protective shadow of Mrs. Ponce’s wreaths. It was quieter than the nexus of the ballroom, but no less cheery. One of the men stood a corner and played a pleasant concertina. The wives passed around platters of food and manning the casks of assorted beer was Duncan Grange.  
Grange took a shrewd look at the pair with their sundry bruises, grass stains, and Miss Lefay’s incongruous trousers, and gave a simple nod to the sight. “I don’t see that favor I gave you, Miss,” he said congenially, though there was a question hiding in his voice.

“It served its purpose,” answered Celeste with a sly smile. Grange accepted her answer with a grin and produced two empty pints at the makeshift bar.

“What’ll it be, then? And for you Sir, as well.”

Celeste answered for the them both. “The Fyn’s Reserve for me. Changeling Water for him.”

Grange turned to the casks. “A fine choice, Miss Lefay. We got plenty of places to sit and enjoy it too. So long as you don’t mind a horse or two nibbling on your seat.” He placed a thick pint of stout so dark it was navy beside Holmes, and a pale pinkish lager in front of the Officer. Grange caught the latter’s eye, his face suddenly turning solemn. “Thank you.”

Celeste silently nodded to accept the gratitude, before grabbing her drink and heading for a quiet corner with a hay bale. The two sat in silence, their backs to the stable wall, breathing deeply the grounded scent of straw and horses. The smell, the cold drinks in their hands, the buzz of distant conversation had a steadying effect. The dangers from earlier in the evening faded into something less visceral, a memory to be tucked away in a filing cabinet or told to a friend by the fireside. 

After a moment, Holmes studied the abyss that was his drink. “Is this safe for human consumption?”

Celeste laughed. “That one is just sturdy.” She lifted her own glass. “This is the stuff that could knock you flat. But my compliments to your caution.” She raised the pint in toast. “To surviving.”

Holmes matched his. “To an exciting initiation into a new world.” Their glasses clinked. “Thank you for playing Virgil.”

“Virgil did have his own life puttering around the Vestibule before Dante dropped onto his lap, so it is convenient we were on the same errand.”

“And now that said errand has concluded, I shall return to the unmagical realm of Baker Street knowing English Fae are in good hands.”

“Well, the Office’s hands.” Celeste cut a sidelong glance at Holmes. “Don’t be too much of a stranger though. I’ve read enough about you to know you don’t always defer to Scotland Yard. You provide a certain degree of disruption to society. It’s a disruption the Fae District often sorely needs.”

“Surely it is a disruption you yourself can offer?”

Celeste’s smile was almost bitter. “The Office bought and paid for my loyalty long ago. And besides,” she said with a shrug. “We do still live in Human Britain. Without the authority of the Office, I’m just a woman, to be chided and underestimated. Much like you did on our first meeting.”

“I do apologize, once again.”

She nudged his shoulder with hers. “You’re learning. That’s more than nothing. Just keep your mind open and your head out of your arse, and maybe you’ll find London Fae a tad more hospitable when next you feel curious.” 

“And should dealing with Scotland Yard ever become… tedious, know there is an over-curious greyhound nearby who will happily coordinate.”

“That does sound more congenial than punching my way through an obstinate contact,” said Celeste, grinning behind her drink.

Holmes chuckled. “Leopard.”

“Derryn.”

“One day, we shall move beyond petty insults.”

“And that day, each shall be far to bored of the other to tolerate conversation.”

They laughed, toasted again, and, relaxed by the setting and company, they spun out together the explanations for their clients. And when they parted ways later in the night, Holmes was able to look at the night sky without trepidation.

In the present morning, the only trepidation was from Lord Weatherby as he learned the danger once hiding right under his nose. Lady Weatherby, if anything, looked relieved her concerns were not only at an end, but validated. 

“I don’t understand how the Constable could have been with us so long without anyone suspecting,” said Lord Weatherby, clutching his wife protectively. 

“He was adept at hiding his prejudices,” interjected Holmes. “Particularly in deference to power. When speaking with you, or the village elders, the hierarchy was maintained, and he had no reason to object. It was when that hierarchy was interrupted, by a family matriarch, an equal marriage, even a female Liaison Officer.” He nodded towards Miss Lefay. “He would respond in silence, hiding his resentment in front of any who could challenge him. That was why the he used Hangley for social blackmail. Without giving away his involvement, an innocuous question or pointed observation would make the women terrified for their reputations, their marriages. They would withdraw from their positions of influence, and Clifton would regain his equilibrium.”

“Was that cad Hangley aware of all this?” Asked Mr. Ponce.

Celeste answered quickly. “Not of the greater schemes, no. They shared their stories and their resentments, but his larger schemes were known only to him. Lilith Weatherby was not a planned conquest chosen for Hangley by Clifton, so when relationship slowed down Clifton’s work, his mind spiraled downward, and his ambitions turned to murder.”

The audience was solemn and quiet for a moment. Holmes and Lefay gave them their time, posture professional, expressions compassionate. Lord Weatherby sighed, his hand to his mouth, and said almost to himself, “We’re going to need to find another constable.”

“Director Grimm will be here shortly to help with any loose ends,” Celeste said quickly. Holmes blanched, a tiny twisted smile the only evidence his compatriot noticed. “With his help, the village and yourself can fill the role with someone more… compatible to the community.”

“When will the Director be arriving, Officer?” Asked Holmes lightly.

“He should have arrived with the eleven o’clock train. It’s a shame you’ll miss him. Did you not say you had a case back in London this afternoon?”

“Ah yes, for that I will have to take my leave presently.” They shared a smile and a handshake. He silently thanked her for the escape with a quirk of his eyebrow. Director Grimm was not a fan of the consulting detective, so he was happy to have his influence felt but not seen. “You will give him my regards, and perhaps a glowing endorsement?”

“Of course, Mr. Holmes. Safe travels back to the city.”

The rest of the farewells were pleasant but brief. He accepted a warm embrace from Mrs. Ponce and scowled at the giggles of the Staunton twins. But it was with a light mood he left the Weatherby Estate and sat beside Duncan Grange making swift time to the train station. On the road, they passed an dark open carriage. Sitting inside was a sturdy older man with graying temples and a clipped moustache. The two men made brief eye contact, Holmes flashing Thaddeus Grimm a Cheshire grin, tipping his hat. He relished the frustrated surprise marked on the Director’s face, even knowing there might be ramifications down the line. But really, what did that matter?

He had met a Leopard with a crooked smile, and now a whole new world had opened for him to explore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's finally done! A form of this fanfic has existed on the Internet since 2007, and it's finally concluded. Thanks to everyone for reading, sometimes across platforms. We've come a long way. I'm not done with Celeste and Holmes, so keep a weather eye open.


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